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I. 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


PARTNERS OF 
CHANCE 


BY 

HENRY HERBERT KNIBBS 

A 

Author of “ The RidirC Kid from Powder River ” 
**Sundovm Slim” “ Overland Red” etc. 



BOSTON AND NEW YORK 


HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 

(C()e Cambriboe 

1921 















COPYRIGHT, 1931, BY STREET & SMITH CORPORATION 
COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY HENRY HERBERT KNIBBS 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


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CONTENTS 


I. 

Little Jim 

1 

II. 

Panhandle 

9 

III. 

A Minute too late 

21 

IV. 

“A Little Green River” 

29 

V. 

“Top Hand Once” 

38 

VI. 

A Horse-Trade 

56 

VII. 

At the Water-Hole 

72 

VIII. 

High Heels and Moccasins 

84 

IX. 

At the Box-S 

97 

X. 

To TRY HIM OUT 

105 

XI. 

Pony Tracks 

112 

XII. 

Jimmy and the Luger Gun 

121 

XIII. 

At Aunt Jane’s 

130 

XIV. 

Another Game 

142 

XV. 

More Pony Tracks 

165 

XVI. 

San Andreas Town 

172 

XVII. 

That Mescal 

184 

XVIII. 

Joe Scott 

194 

XIX. 

Dorry comes to Town 

202 

XX. 

Along the Foothills 

211 

XXI. 

“Git Along Cayuse” 

228 

XXII. 

Box-S Business 

237 

XXIII. 

The Hole-in-the-Wall 

246 

XXIV. 

Cheyenne plays big ^ 

254 

XXV. 

Two Trails Home 

262 


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PARTNERS OF CHANCE 

CHAPTER I 

LITTLE JIM 

Little Jim knew that something strange had 
happened, because Big Jim, his father, had sold 
their few head of cattle, the work team, and the 
farm implements, keeping only the two saddle- 
horses and the pack-horse, Filaree. When 
Little Jim asked where his mother had gone, 
Big Jim told him that she had gone on a visit, 
and would be away a long time. Little Jim 
wanted to know if his mother would ever come 
back. When Big Jim said that she would not. 
Little Jim manfully suppressed his tears, and, 
being of that frontier stock that always has an 
eye to the main chance, he thrust out his hand. 
“Well, I'll stick with you, dad. I reckon we 
can make the grade." 

Big Jim turned away and stood for a long 
time gazing out of the cabin window toward 
town. Presently he felt a tug at his coat-sleeve. 

“Is ma gone to live in town.^^” 

“Yes." 


2 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


“Then why don’t you go get her?” 

“She don’t want to come back, Jimmy.” 

Little Jim could not understand this. Yet 
he had often heard his mother complain of their 
life on the homestead, and as often he had 
watched his father sitting grimly at table, saying 
nothing in reply to his wife’s querulous com¬ 
plainings. The boy knew that his father had 
worked hard to make a home. They had all 
worked hard. But, then, that had seemed the 
only thing to do. 

Presently Big Jim swung round as though he 
had made a decision. He lighted the lamp in the 
kitchen and made a fire. Little Jim scurried out 
to the well with a bucket. Little Jim was a 
hustler, never waiting to be told what to do. 
His mother was gone. He did not know why. 
But he knew that folks had to eat and sleep and 
work. While his father prepared supper. Little 
Jim rolled up his own shirt-sleeves and washed 
vigorously. Then he filled the two glasses on 
the table, laid the plates and knives and forks, 
and finding nothing else to do in the house, just 
then, he scurried out again and returned with 
his small arms filled with firewood. 

Big Jim glanced at him. “I guess we don’t 


LITTLE JIM 


3 


need any more wood, Jimmy. We’ll be leaving 
in the morning.” 

‘‘What? Leavin’ here?” 

His father nodded. 

“Goin’ to town, dad?” 

“No. South.” 

“Just US two, all alone?” 

“Yes. Don’t you want to go?” 

“Sure! But I wish ma was cornin’, too.” 

Big Jim winced. “So do I, Jimmy. But I 
guess we can get along all right. How would 
you like to visit Aunt Jane, down in Arizona?” 

“Where them horn toads and stingin’ lizards 
are?” 

“Yes^—^and Gila monsters and all kinds of 
critters.” 

“Gee! Has Aunt Jane got any of ’em on her 
ranch?” 

Big Jim forced a smile. “I reckon so.” 

Little Jim’s face was eager. “Then I say, 
let’s go. Mebby I can get to shoot one. Hunt¬ 
in’ is more fun than workin’ all the time. I 
guess ma got tired of workin’, too. She said 
that was all she ever expected to do, ’long as we 
lived out here on the ranch. But she never 
told me she was goin’ to quit.” 


4 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


‘‘She didn’t tell me, either, Jimmy. But you 
wouldn’t understand.” 

Jimmy puckered his forehead. “I guess ma 
kind of thro wed us down, didn’t she, dad.^” 

“We’ll have to forget about it,” said Big 
Jim slowly. “Down at Aunt Jane’s place in^— 

“Somethin’’s burnin’, dad!” 

Big Jim turned to the stove. Little Jim 
gazed at his father’s back critically. There 
was something in the stoop of the broad shoul¬ 
ders that was unnatural, strange—^something 
that caused Little Jim to hesitate in his ques¬ 
tioning. Little Jim idolized his father, and, 
with unfailing intuition, believed in him to the 
last word. As for his mother, who had left 
without explanation and would never return^—■ 
Little Jim missed her, but more through habit of 
association than with actual grief. 

He knew that his mother and father had not 
gotten along very well for some time. And now 
Little Jim recalled something that his mother 
had said: “He’s as much your boy as he is mine, 
Jim Hastings, and, if you are set on sending him 
to school, for goodness’ sake get him some decent 
clothes, which is more than I have had for many 
a year.” 

Until then Jimmy had not realized that his 


LITTLE JIM 


5 


clothing or his mother’s was other than it should 
be. Moreover, he did not want to go to school. 
He preferred to work on the ranch with his 
father. But it was chiefly the tone of his 
mother’s voice that had impressed him. For 
the first time in his young life, Little Jim felt 
that he was to blame for something which he 
could not understand. He was accustomed to 
his mother’s sudden fits of unreasonable anger, 
often followed by a cuff, or sharp reprimand. 
But she had never mentioned his need of better 
clothing before, nor her own need. 

As for being as much his father’s boy as 
his mother’s—Little Jim felt that he quite 
agreed to that, and, if anything, that he be¬ 
longed more to his father, who was kind to him, 
than to any one else in the world. Little Jim, 
trying to reason it out, now thought that he 
knew why his mother had left home. She had 
gone to live in town that she might have better 
clothes and be with folks and not wear her 
fingers to the bone simply for a bed and three 
meals a day, as Little Jim had heard her say 
more than once. 

But the trip to Aunt Jane’s, down in Arizona, 
was too vivid in his imagination to allow room for 
pondering. Big Jim had said they were to leave 


6 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


in the morning. So, while supper was cooking, 
Little Jim slipped into his bedroom and busied 
himself packing his own scant belongings. 
Presently his father called him. Little Jim 
plodded out bearing his few spare clothes corded 
in a neat bundle, with an old piece of canvas for 
the covering. His father had taught him to pack. 

Big Jim stared. Then a peculiar expression 
flitted across his face. Little Jim was always 
for the main chance. 

“I’m all hooked up to hit the trail, dad.’’ 

In his small blue overalls and jumper, in his 
alert and manful attitude. Little Jim was a 
pocket edition of his father. 

“Where’s your shootin’-iron?” queried Big 
Jim jokingly. 

“Why, she’s standin’ in the corner, aside of 
yours. A man don’t pack his shootin’-iron in 
his bed-roll when he hits the trail. He keeps her 
handy.” 

“For stingin’ lizards, eh?” 

“For ’most anything. Stingin’ lizards, In¬ 
juns, or hoss-thieves, or anything that we kin 
shoot. We ain’t takin’ no chances on this here 
trip.” 

Big Jim gestured toward the table and pulled 
up his chair. Little Jim was too heartily inter- 


LITTLE JIM 


7 


ested in the meal to notice that his father gazed 
curiously at him from time to time. Until then. 
Big Jim had thought of his small son as a 
chipper, sturdy, willing boy^—his boy. But 
now, Little Jim seemed suddenly to have be¬ 
come an actual companion, a partner, a sharer 
in things as they were and were to be. 

Hard work and inherent industry had de¬ 
veloped in Little Jim an independence that 
would have been considered precocious in the 
East. Big Jim was glad that the mother’s ab¬ 
sence did not seem to affect the boy much. Little 
Jim seemed quite philosophical about it. Yet, 
deep in his heart, Little Jim missed his mother, 
more than his father realized. The house 
seemed strangely empty and quiet. And it had 
seemed queer that Big Jim should cook the 
supper, and, later, wash the dishes. 

That evening, just before they went to bed. 
Big Jim ransacked the bureau, sorting out his 
own things, and laying aside a few things that 
his wife had left: a faded pink ribbon, an old 
pair of high-heeled slippers, a torn and un¬ 
mended apron, and an old gingham dress. 
Gathering these things together. Big Jim stuffed 
them in the kitchen stove. Little Jim watched 
him silently. 


8 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


But when his father came from the stove and 
sat down, Little Jim slipped over to him. ‘‘Dad, 
are you mad at ma for leavin’ us?” he queried. 

Big Jim shook his head. “No, Jimmy. Just 
didn’t want to leave her things around, after we 
had gone. Benson’ll be movin’ in sometime 
this week. I sold our place to him.” 

“The stove and beds and everything?” 

“Everything.” 

Little Jim wrinkled his nose and sniffed. 
“Them things you put in the stove smell just 
like brandin’ a critter,” he said, gesturing 
toward the kitchen. 

Big Jim gazed hard at his young son. Then 
he smiled to himself, and shook his head. “Just 
like brandin’ a critter,” he repeated, half to him¬ 
self. “Just like brandin’ a critter.” 


CHAPTER II 


PANHANDLE 

While his friends and neighbors called Jim 
Hastings “Big Jim,” he was no more than aver¬ 
age size^—compact, vigorous, reared in the 
Wyoming cattle lands, and typical of the coun¬ 
try. He was called Big Jim simply to distin¬ 
guish him from Little Jim, who was as well 
known in Laramie as his father. Little Jim, 
when but five years of age, rode his own pony, 
jogging alongside his father when they went to 
town, where he was decidedly popular with the 
townsfolk because of his sturdy independence 
and humorous grin. 

Little Jim talked horses and cattle and ranch¬ 
ing with the grown-ups and took their good- 
natured joshing philosophically. He seldom 
retorted hastily, but, rather, blinked his eyes 
and wrinkled his forehead as he digested this or 
that pleasantry, and either gave it the indiffer¬ 
ent acknowledgment of “Shucks! Think you 
can josh mef^ or, if the occasion and the remark 
seemed to call for more serious consideration, he 
rose to it manfully, and often to the embarrass¬ 
ment of the initial speaker. 


10 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


Little Jim liked to go to town with his father, 
yet he considered town really a sort of suburb 
to his real world, the homestead, which he had 
seen change from a prairie level of unfenced 
space to a small—^and to him—complete king¬ 
dom of pasture lot, hayfield, garden, corrals, 
stable, and house. Town was simply a place to 
which you went to buy things, get the mail, ex¬ 
change views on the weather and grazing, and 
occasionally help the hands load a shipment of 
cattle. Little Jim helped by sitting on the top 
rail of the pens and commenting on the indi¬ 
vidual characteristics of the cattle, and, some¬ 
times, of the men loading them. In such 
instances he found opportunity to pay off old 
scores. Incidentally he kept the men in good 
humor by his lively comment. 

Little Jim was six years of age when his 
mother left to resume her former occupation 
of waitress in the station restaurant of Laramie, 
where she had been popular because of her 
golden hair, her blue eyes, and her ability to 
‘Talk back” to the regular customers in a man¬ 
ner which they seemed to enjoy. Big Jim mar¬ 
ried her when he was not much more than a boy 
—twenty, in fact; and during the first few years 
they were happy together. But homesteading 


PANHANDLE 


11 


failed to supply more than their immediate 
needs. 

Occasional trips to town at first satisfied the 
wife’s craving for the attention and admiration 
that most men paid to her rather superficial 
good looks. But as the years slipped by, with 
no promise of easier conditions, she became dis¬ 
satisfied, shrewish, and ashamed of her lack of 
pretty things to wear. Little Jim was, of 
course, as blind to all this as he was to his need 
for anything other than his overalls, shoes, and 
jumper. He thought his mother was pretty and 
he often told her so. 

Meanwhile, Big Jim tried to blind himself to 
his wife’s growing dissatisfaction. He was too 
much of a man to argue her own short-comings 
as against his inability to do more for her than 
he was doing. But when she did leave, with 
simply a brief note saying that she was tired of it 
all, and would take care of herself, what hit Big 
Jim the hardest was the fact that she could give 
up Little Jim without so much as a word about 
him. Every one liked Little Jim, and the 
mother’s going proved something that Big Jim 
had tried to ignore for several years^—^that his 
wife cared actually nothing for the boy. When 
Big Jim finally realized this, his indecision 


12 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


evaporated. He would sell out and try his 
fortunes in Arizona, where his sister Jane lived, 
the sister who had never seen Little Jim, but 
who had often written to Big Jim, inviting him 
to come and bring his family for a visit. 

Big Jim had enough money from the sale of 
his effects to make the journey by train, even 
after he had deposited half of the proceeds at 
the local bank, in his wife’s name. But being 
a true son of the open, he wanted to see the 
country; so he decided to travel horseback, with 
a pack-animal. Little Jim, used to the saddle, 
would find the journey a real adventure. They 
would take it easy. There was no reason for haste. 

It had seemed the simplest thing to do, to sell 
out, leave that part of the country, and forget 
what had happened. There was nothing to be 
gained by staying where they were. Big Jim 
had lost his interest in the ranch. Moreover, 
there had been some talk of another man, in 
Laramie, a man who had ‘‘kept company” 
with Jenny Simpson, before she became Mrs. 
Jim Hastings. Mrs. Hastings was still young 
and quite good-looking. 

It had seemed a simple thing to do—to 
leave and begin life over again in another land. 
But Big Jim had forgotten Smiler. Smiler was 


PANHANDLE 


13 


a dog of vague ancestry, a rough-coated, yellow 
dog that belonged solely to Little Jim. Smiler 
stuck so closely to Little Jim that their shadows 
were veritably one. Smiler was a sort of 
chuckle-headed, good-natured animal, meek, so 
long as Little Jim’s prerogatives were not 
infringed upon, but a cyclone of yellow wrath if 
Little Jim were approached by any one in other 
than a friendly spirit. Even when Big Jim 
“roughed” his small son, in fun, Smiler grew 
nervous and bristled, and once, when the mother 
had smacked Little Jim for some offense or 
other, Smiler had taken sides to the extent of 
jumping between the mother and the boy, 
ready to do instant battle if his young partner 
were struck again. 

“I’m afraid we can’t take Smiler with us,” 
said Big Jim, as Little Jim scurried about next 
morning, getting ready for the great adventure. 

Little Jim stopped as though he had run 
against a rope. He had not even dreamed but 
that Smiler would go with them. 

Now, Little Jim had not forgathered with 
punchers and townsfolk for nothing. He was 
naturally shrewd, and he did not oflPer or contro¬ 
vert opinions hastily. He stood holding a bit 
of old tie-rope in his hand, pondering this last un- 


14 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


thinkable development of the situation. Smiler 
was to be left behind. Jimmy wanted to ask 
why Smiler could not go. He wanted to assure 
his father that Smiler would be a help rather 
than a hindrance to the expedition. 

Little Jim knew that if he wept, his father 
might pay some attention to that sort of plea. 
But Little Jim did not intend to weep, nor ask 
questions, nor argue. Smiler stood expectantly 
watching the preparations. He knew that 
something important was about to happen, and, 
with the loyalty of his kind, he was ready to 
follow, no matter where. Smiler had sniffed the 
floor of the empty house, the empty stables, the 
corral. His folks were going somewhere. Well, 
he was ready. 

Little Jim, who had been gazing wistfully at 
Smiler, suddenly strode to his pack and sat down. 
He bit his lips. Tears welled to his eyes and 
drifted slowly down his cheeks. He had not 
intended to let himself weep—-but there was 
Smiler, wagging his thick tail, waiting to go. 

‘T g-g-guess you better go ahead and hit the 
trail, dad.” 

“Why, that’s what we’re going to do. What 
—” Big Jim glanced at his boy. “What’s 
the matter?” 


PANHANDLE 


15 


Little Jim did not answer, but his attitude 
spoke for itself. He had decided to stay with 
Smiler. 

Big Jim frowned. It was the first time that 
the boy had ever openly rebelled. And because 
it was the first time, Big Jim realized its signifi¬ 
cance. Yet, such loyalty, even to a dog, was 
worth while. 

Big Jim put his hand on Little Jim’s shoulder. 
“Smiler’ll get sore feet on the trails, Jimmy. 
And there won’t be a whole lot to eat.” 

Little Jim blinked up at his father. “Well, 
he can have half of my grub, and I reckon I 
can pack him on the saddle with me if his feet 
get tender.” 

“All right. But don’t blame me if Smiler 
peters out on the trip.” 

“Smiler’s tough, he is!” stated Little Jim. 
“He’s so tough he bites barb wire. Anyhow, 
you said we was goin’ to take it easy. And 
he can catch rabbits, I guess.” 

“Perhaps he won’t want to come along,” 
suggested Big Jim as he pulled up a cincha and 
slipped the end through the ring. 

Little Jim beckoned to Smiler who had stood 
solemnly listening to the controversy about him- 


16 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


self as though he understood. Smiler trotted 
over to Jimmy. 

“You want to take it plumb easy on this trip/’ 
said Little Jim, “and not go to chasin’ around 
and runnin’ yourself ragged get tin’ nowhere. 
If you get sore feet, we’ll just have to beef you 
and hang your hide on the fence.” 

Smiler grinned and wagged his tail. He 
pushed up and suddenly licked Little Jim’s face. 
Little Jim promptly cuffed him. Smiler came 
back for more. 

Big Jim turned and watched the boy and the 
dog in their rough-and-tumble about the yard. 
He blinked and turned back to the horses. 
“Come on, Jimmy. We’re all set.” 

“Got to throw my pack on ole Lazy, dad. 
Gimme a hand, will you?” 

Little Jim never would admit that he could 
not do anything there was to be done. When 
he was stuck he simply asked his father to help 
him. 

Big Jim slung up the small pack and drew 
down the hitch. Little Jim ducked under Lazy 
and took the rope on the other side, passing the 
end to his father. 

“Reckon that pack’ll ride all right,” said the 


PANHANDLE 


17 


boy, surveying the outfit. “Got the morrals 
and everything, dad?” 

“All set, Jimmy.” 

“Then let’s go. I got my ole twenty-two 
loaded. If we run on to one of them stingin’ 
lizards, he’s sure a goner. Does dogs eat 
lizards?” 

Big Jim swung to the saddle and hazed the 
old pack-horse ahead. “Don’t know, Jimmy. 
Sometimes the Indians eat them.” 

“Eat stingin’ lizards?” 

“Yep.” 

“Well, I guess Smiler can, then. Come on, 
ole-timer!” 

Suddenly Little Jim thought of his mother. 
It seemed that she ought to be with them. 
Little Jim had wept when Smiler was in question. 
Now he gazed with clear-eyed faith at his father. 

“It ain’t our fault ma ain’t goin’ with us, is 
it?” he queried timidly. 

Big Jim shrugged his shoulders. 

“Say, dad, we’re headed west. Thought you 
said we was goin’ to Arizona?” 

“We’ll turn south, after a while.” 

Little Jim asked no more questions. His 
father knew everything—why they were going 
and where. Little Jim glanced back to where 


18 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


Smiler padded along, his tongue out and his 
eyes already rimmed with dust, for he would 
insist upon traveling tight to Lazy’s heels. 

Little Jim leaned back. ‘‘Stick it out, ole- 
timer! But don’t you go to cuttin’ dad’s 
trail till he gets kind of used to seein’ you 
around. Sabe?” 

Smiler grinned through a dust-begrimed coun¬ 
tenance. He wagged his tail. 

Little Jim plunked his horse in the ribs and 
drew up beside his father. Little Jim felt big 
and important riding beside his dad. There had 
been some kind of trouble at home—-and they 
were leaving it behind. It would be a long trail, 
and his father sure would need help. 

Little Jim drew a deep breath. He wanted 
to express his unwavering loyalty to his father. 
He wanted to talk of his willingness to go any¬ 
where and share any kind of luck. But his 
resolve to speak evaporated in a sigh of satis¬ 
faction. This was a real holiday, an adven¬ 
ture. “Smiler’s makin’ it fine, dad.” 

But Big Jim did not seem to hear. He was 
gazing ahead, where in the distance loomed an 
approaching figure on horseback. Little Jim 
knew who it was, and was about to say so when 
his father checked him with a gesture. Little 


PANHANDLE 


19 


Jim saw his father shift his belt round so that 
his gun hung handy. He said nothing and 
showed by no other sign that he had recognized 
the approaching rider, who came on swiftly, his 
high-headed pinto fighting the bit. 

Within twenty yards of them, the rider reined 
his hor^e to a walk. Little Jim saw the two 
men eye each other closely. The man on the 
pinto rode past. Little Jim turned to his 
father, 

‘T guess Panhandle is goin’ to town,” said the 
boy, not knowing just what to say, yet feeling 
that the occasion called for some remark. 

‘‘Panhandle” Sears and his father knew each 
other. They had passed on the road, neither 
speaking to the other. And Little Jim was not 
blind to the significant movement of shifting 
a belt that a gun might hang ready to hand. 

Yet he soon forgot the incident in visioning 
the future. Arizona, Aunt Jane, and stingin’ 
lizards! 

Big Jim rode with head bowed. He was 
thinking of the man who had just passed them. 
If it had not been for the boy, Big Jim and that 
man would have had it out, there on the 
road. And Jenny Hastings would have been 
the cause of their quarrel. “Panhandle” Sears 


20 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


had ^‘kept company” with Jenny before she 
became Big Jim’s wife. Now that she had left 
him—' 

Big Jim turned and gazed back along the 
road. A far-away cloud of dust rolled toward 
the distant town of Laramie. 


CHAPTER III 

A MINUTE TOO LATE 

The Overland, westbound, was late. Never¬ 
theless, it had to stop at Antelope, but it did 
so grudgingly and left with a snort of disdain 
for the cow-town of the high mesa. Curious¬ 
eyed tourists had a brief glimpse of a loading- 
chute, cattle-pens, a puncher or two, and an 
Indian freighter’s wagon just pulling in from 
the spaces, and accompanied by a plodding 
cavalcade of outriders on paint ponies. 

Incidentally the westbound left one of those 
momentarily interested Easterners on the sta¬ 
tion platform, without baggage, sense of di¬ 
rection, or companion. He had stepped off 
the train to send a telegram to a friend in Cal¬ 
ifornia. He discovered that he had left his 
address book in his grip. Meanwhile the train 
had moved forward some sixty yards, to take 
water. Returning for his address book, he 
boarded the wrong Pullman, realized his mis¬ 
take, and hastened on through to his car. Out 
to the station again^—^delay in getting the at¬ 
tention of the telegraph operator, the wire 


22 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


finally written—^and the Easterner heard the 
rumble of the train as it pulled out. 

Even then he would have made it had it not 
been for a portly individual in shirt-sleeves who 
inadvertently blocked the doorway of the tele¬ 
graph ofiice. Bartley bumped into this portly 
person, tried to squeeze past, did so, and prompt¬ 
ly caromed off the station agent whom he met 
head on, halfway across the platform. Gazing 
at the departing train, Bartley reached in his 
pocket for a cigar which he lighted casually. 

The portly individual touched him on the 
shoulder. “ ’Nother one, this afternoon.” 

‘‘Thanks. But my baggage is on that one.” 

“You’re lucky it ain’t two sections behind, 
this time of year. Travel is heavy.” 

Bartley’s quick glance took in the big man 
from his high-heeled boots to his black Stetson. 
A cattleman, evidently well to do, and quite 
evidently not fiustered by the mishaps of other 
folks. 

“There’s a right comfortable little hotel, just 
over there,” stated the cattleman. “Wishful 
runs her. It ain’t a bad place to wait for your 
train.” 

Bartley smiled in spite of his irritation. 

The cattleman’s eyes twinkled. “You’ll be 


A MINUTE TOO LATE 


23 


sending a wire to have ’em take care of your 
war bag. Well, come on in and send her. You 
can catch Number Eight about Winslow.” 

The cattleman forged ahead, and in the tele¬ 
graph office, got the immediate attention of the 
operator, who took Bartley’s message. 

The cattleman paid for it. ‘‘ ’Tain’t the first 
time my size has cost me money,” he said, as 
Bartley protested. ‘‘Now, let’s go over and 
get another cigar. Then we can mill around 
and see Wishful. You’ll like Wishful. He’s 
different.” 

They strode down the street and stopped in 
at a saloon where the cattleman called for cigars. 
Bartley noticed that the proprietor of the place 
addressed the big cattleman as “Senator.” 

“This here is a dry climate, and a cigar burns 
up right quick, if you don’t moisten it a little,” 
said the cattleman. “I ’most always moisten 
mine.” 

Bartley grinned. “I think the occasion calls 
for it. Senator.” 

“Oh, shucks! Just call me Steve^—^Steve 
Brown. And just give us a little Green River, 
Tom.” 

A few minutes later Bartley and his stout 
companion were seated on the veranda of the 


24 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


hotel, gazing out across the mesas. They were 
both comfortable, and quite content to watch 
the folk go past, out there in the heat. Bartley 
wondered if the title “Senator” were a nickname, 
or if the portly gentleman placidly smoking his 
cigar and gazing into space was really a poli¬ 
tician. 

A dusty cow-puncher drifted past the hotel, 
waving his hand to the Senator, who replied 
genially. A little later a Navajo buck rode up 
on a quick-stepping pony. He grunted a salu¬ 
tation and said something in his native tongue. 
The Senator replied in kind. Bartley was in¬ 
terested. Presently the Navajo dug his heels 
into his pony’s ribs, and clattered up the road. 

The Senator turned to Bartley. “Politics and 
cattle,” he said, smiling. 

Having learned the Senator’s vocation, Bart¬ 
ley gave his own as briefly. The Senator nodded. 

“It is as obvious as all that, then?” queried 
Bartley. 

“I wouldn’t say that,” stated the Senator 
carefully. “But after you bumped into me, 
and then stepped into the agent, and then 
turned around and took in my scenery, no¬ 
ticin’ the set of my legs, I says to myself, ‘paint¬ 
er-man or writer.’ It was kind of in your eye. 


A MINUTE TOO LATE 


25 


I figured you wa’n’t no painter-man when you 
looked at the oil paintin’ over the bar. 

“A painter-man would ’a’ looked sad or said 
somethin’, for that there paintin’ is the most 
gosh-awful picture of what a puncher might 
look like after a cyclone had hit him. I took 
a painter-man in there once, to get a drink. 
He took one look at that picture, and then he 
says, kind of sorrowful: ‘Is this the only place 
in town where they serve liquor?’ I told him it 
was. ‘Let’s go over and tackle the pump,’ he 
says. But we had our drink. I told him just 
to turn his back on that picture when he took 
his.” 

“I might be anything but a writer,” said 
Bartley. 

“That’s correct. But you ain’t.” 

“You hit the nail on the head. However, 
I can’t just follow your line of reasoning it out.” 

“Easy. Elimination. Now a tourist, regular, 
stares at folks and things. But a painter or 
writer he takes things in without starin’. There’s 
some difference. I knew you were a man who 
did things. It’s in your eye.” 

“Well,” laughed Bartley, “I took you for 
a cattleman the minute I saw you.” 

“Which was a minute too late, eh?” 


26 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


‘T don’t know about that. Since I’ve been 
sitting here looking at the mesa and those 
wonderful buttes over there, and watching 
the natives come and go, I have begun to feel 
that I don’t care so much about that train, 
after all. I like this sort of thing. You see, I 
planned to visit California, but there was noth¬ 
ing definite about the plan. I chose California 
because I had heard so much about it. It 
doesn’t matter much where I go. By the way, 
my name is Bartley.” 

“I’m Steve Brown^—-cattle and politics. I 
tell you, Mr. Bartley^— 

“Suppose you say just Bartley.^” 

The Senator chuckled. “Suppose I said 
‘Green Biver’.^” 

“I haven’t an objection in the world,” laughed 
Bartley. 

“Wishful, here, don’t keep liquor,” explained 
the Senator. “And he’s right about that. 
Folks that stay at this hotel want to sleep 
nights.” 

The Senator heaved himself out of his chair, 
stood up, and stretched. 

“I reckon you’ll be wantin’ to see all you can 
of this country. My ranch lays just fifty miles 
south of the railroad, and not a fence from here 


A MINUTE TOO LATE 


27 


to there. Then, there’s them Indians, up north 
a piece. And over yonder is where they dig up 
them prehistoric villages. And those buttes 
over there used to be volcanoes, before they 
laid off the job. To the west is the petrified 
forest. I made a motion once, when the Legisla¬ 
ture was in session, to have that forest set aside 
as a buryin’-ground for politicians,^—^State Sena¬ 
tors and the like,^—^but they voted me down. 
They said I didn’t specify dead politicians. 

‘‘South of my place is the Apache reservation. 
There’s good hxmtin’ in that country. ’Course, 
Arizona ain’t no Garden of Eden to some folks. 
Two kinds of folks don’t love this State a little 
bit—^homesteaders and tourists. But when it 
comes to cattle and sheep and mines, you can’t 
beat her. She sure is the Tiger Lily of the West. 
But let’s step over and see Tom. Excuse me a 
minute. There’s a constituent who has some¬ 
thin’ on his chest. I’ll meet you at the station.” 

The Senator stepped out and talked with his 
constituent. Meanwhile, Bartley turned to 
gaze down the street. A string of empty freight 
wagons, followed by a lazy cloud of dust, rolled 
slowly toward town. Here and there a bit of 
red showed in the dun mass of riders that ac¬ 
companied the wagons. A gay-colored blanket 


28 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


flickered in the sun. The mesas radiated keen 
dry heat. 

Bartley turned and crossed over to the sta¬ 
tion. He blinked the effects of the white light 
from his eyes as he entered the telegraph office. 
The operator, in shirt-sleeves, and smoking a 
brown-paper cigarette, nodded and handed 
Bartley a service message stating that his 
effects would be carried to Los Angeles and held 
for further orders. 

“It’s sure hot,” said the operator. “Did 
you want to send another wire.^” 

Bartley shook his head. “Who is that stout 
man I bumped into trying to catch my train?” 

“That’s Senator Steve Brown—^State Sena¬ 
tor. Thought you knew him.” 

“No. I just met him to-day.” 

The operator slumped down in his chair. 

Bartley strode to the door and blinked in the 
Arizona sunshine. “By George!” he mur¬ 
mured, “I always thought they wore those 
big Stetsons for show. But all day in this sun—• 
guess I’ll have to have one.” 


CHAPTER IV 
“a little green river” 

To suddenly stop off at a cow-town station, 
without baggage or definite itinerary, was un¬ 
conventional, to say the least. Bartley was 
amused and interested. Hitherto he had written 
more or less conventional stuff^—-acceptable 
stories of the subway, the slums, the docks, 
and the streets of Eastern cities. But now, as 
he strode over to the saloon, he forgot that he 
was a writer of stories. A boyish longing pos¬ 
sessed him to see much of the life roundabout, 
even to the farthest, faint range of hills^—^and 
beyond. 

He felt that while he still owed something 
to his original plan of visiting California, he 
could do worse than stay right where he was. 
He had thought of wiring to have his baggage 
sent back. Then it occurred to him that, aside 
from his shaving-kit and a few essentials, his 
baggage comprised but little that he could use 
out here in the mesa country. And he felt a 
certain relief in not having trunks to look after. 
Outing flannels and evening clothes would 


30 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


hardly fit into the present scheme of things. 
The local store would furnish him all that he 
needed. In this frame of mind he entered the 
Blue Front Saloon where he found Senator 
Steve and his foreman seated at a side table 
discussing the merits of “Green River.” 

“Hello!” called the Senator. “Mr. Bartley, 
meet my foreman, Lon Felly.” 

They shook hands. 

“Lon says the source of Green River is Joy 
in the Hills,” asserted the Senator, smiling. 

The long, lean cow-puncher grinned. “Steve, 
here, says the source of Green River is trouble.” 

“Now, as a writin’ man, what would you 
say?” queried the Senator. 

Bartley gazed at the label on the bottle under 
discussion. “Well, as a writer, I might say 
that it depends how far you travel up or down 
Green River. But as a mere individual en¬ 
joying the blessings of companionship, I should 
say, let’s experiment, judiciously.” 

“Fetch a couple more glasses, Tom,” called 
the Senator. 

After the essential formalties, Bartley pushed 
back his chair, crossed one leg over the other, and 
lighted a cigar. “I’m rather inclined toward that 
Joy in the Hills theory, just now,” he asserted. 


A LITTLE GREEN RIVER 


31 


“That’s all right,” said Lon Felly. “Be- 
in’ a little inclined don’t hurt any. But if 
you keep on reachin’ for Joy, your foot is like 
to slip. Then comes Trouble.” 

“Lon’s qualified for the finals once or twice,” 
said the Senator. “Now, take m^, for a horrible 
example. I been navigatin’ Green River, off 
and on, for quite a spell, and I never got hung 
up bad.” 

“Speaking of rivers, they’re rather scarce 
in this country, I believe,” said Bartley. 

“Yes. But some of ’em are noticeable in 
the rainy season,” stated Senator Steve. “But 
you ain’t seen Arizona. You’ve only been 
peekin’ through your fingers at her. Wait till 
you get on a cayuse and hit the trail for a few 
hundred miles—^that’s the only way to see the 
country. Now, take ‘Cheyenne.’ He rides this 
here country from Utah to the border, and he 
can tell you somethin’ about Arizona. 

“Cheyenne is a kind of hobo puncher that 
rides the country with his little old pack-horse, 
stoppin’ by to work for a grubstake when he has 
to, but ramblin’ most of the time. He used to 
be a top-hand once. Worked for me a spell. 
But he can’t stay in one place long. Wish you 
could meet him sometime. He can tell you 


32 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


more about this State than any man I know. 
He’s what you might call a character for a story. 
He stops by regular, at the ranch, mebby for a 
day or two, and then takes the trail, singin’ his 
little old song. He’s kind of a outdoor poet. 
Makes up his own songs.” 

“What was that one about Arizona that 
you gave ’em over to the State House onct?” 
queried Lon Pelly. 

“Oh, that wa’n’t Cheyenne’s own po’try. 
It was one he read in a magazine that he gave 
me. Let’s see—• 

Arizona! The tramp of cattle. 

The biting dust and the raw, red brand: 

Shuffling sheep and the smoke of battle: 

The upturned face—and the empty hand. 

Dawn and dusk, and the wide world singing. 

Songs that thrilled with the pulse of life. 

As we clattered down with our rein chains ringing 
To woo you—^but never to make you wife. 

The Senator smiled a trifle apologetically. 
“There’s more of it. But po’try ain’t just in 
my line. Once in a while I bust loose on po’try 
—that is, my kind of po’try. And I want to say 
that we sure clattered down from the Butte and 
the Blue in the old days, with our rein chains 


A LITTLE GREEN RIVER 


33 


jinglin’, thinkin’—some of us—that Arizona was 
ours to fare-ye-well. 

“But we old-timers lived to find out that 
Arizona was too young to get married yet; so 
we just had to set back and kind of admire her, 
after havin’ courted her an amazin’ lot, in our 
young days.” The Senator chuckled. “Now, 
Lon, here, he’ll tell you that there ain’t no 
po’try in this here country. And I never knew 
they was till I got time to set back and think 
over what we unbranded yearlin’s used to do.”, 

“For instance?” queried Bartley. ^ 

Senator Steve waved his pudgy hand as 
though shooing a flock of chickens off a front 
lawn. “If I was to tell you some of the things 
that happened, you would think I was a heap 
sight bigger liar than I am. Seein’ some of 
them yarns in print, folks around this country 
would say: ‘Steve Brown’s corralled some ten¬ 
derfoot and loaded him to the muzzle with shin 
tangle and ancient history!’ Things that would 
seem amazin’ to you would never ruflBie the 
hair of the mavericks that helped make this 
country.” 

“This country ain’t all settled yet,” said the 
foreman, rising. “Beckon I’ll step along, Steve.” 

After the foreman had departed, Bartley 


34 


PAETNERS OF CHANCE 


turned to the Senator. “Are there many more 
like him, out here?” 

“Who, Lon? Well, a few. He’s been fore¬ 
man for me quite a spell. Lon he thinks. And 
that’s more than I ever did till after I was thirty. 
And Lon ain’t twenty-six, yet.” 

“I think I’ll step over to the drug-store and 
get a few things,” said Bartley. 

“So you figure to bed down at the hotel, eh?” 

“Yes. For a few days, at least. I want to 
get over the idea that I have to take the 
next train West before I make any further 
plans.” 

The Senator accompanied Bartley to the drug¬ 
store. The Easterner bought what he needed 
in the way of shaving-kit and brush and comb. 
The Senator excused himself and crossed the 
street to talk to a friend. The afternoon sun 
slanted across the hot roofs, painting black shad¬ 
ows on the dusty street. Bartley found Wish¬ 
ful, the proprietor, and told him that he would 
like to engage a room with a bath. 

Wishful smiled never a smile as he escorted 
Bartley to a room. 

“I’ll fetch your bath up, right soon,” he said 
solemnly. 

Presently Wishful appeared with a galvanized 


A LITTLE GREEN RIVER 


35 


iron washtub and a kettle of boiling water. 
Bartley thanked him. 

“You can leave ’em out in the hall when you’re 
through,” said Wishful. 

Bartley enjoyed a refreshing bath and rub- 
down. Later he set the kettle and tub out in 
the dim hallway. Then he sat down and wrote 
a letter to his friend in California, explaining his 
change of plan. The afternoon sunlight waned. 
Bartley gazed out across the vast mesas, laven- 
der-hued and wonderful, as they darkened Co 
blue, then to purple that was shot with strange 
half-lights from the descending sun. 

Suddenly a giant hand seemed to drop a 
canopy over the vista, and it was night. Bart¬ 
ley lighted the oil lamp and sat staring out into 
the darkness. From below came the rattle of 
dishes. Presently Bartley heard heavy, delib¬ 
erate footsteps ascending the stairway. Then a 
clanging crash and a thud, right outside his door. 
He flung the door open. Senator Steve was 
rising from the flattened semblance of a washtub 
and feeling of himself tenderly. The Senator 
blinked, surveyed the wrecked tub and the kettle 
silently, and then without comment he stepped 
back and kicked the kettle. It soared and 
dropped clanging into the hall below. 


36 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


Wishful appeared at the foot of the stairs, 
“Did you ring. Senator?” 

“Yes, I did! And I’m goin’ to ring again.” 

“Hold on!” said Wishful, “I’ll come up and 
get the tub. I got the kettle.” 

The Senator puffed into Bartley’s room and 
sat on the edge of the bed. He wiped his bald 
head, smiling cherubically. “Did you hear 
him, askin’ me, a member of the Society for 
the Prevention of Progress, if I rang for 
him! That’s about all the respect I command 
in this community. I sure want to apolo¬ 
gize for not stoppin’ to knock,” added the 
Senator. 

Bartley grinned. “It was hardly necessary. 
I heard you.” 

“I just came up to see if you would take 
dinner with me and my missus. We’re goin’ to 
eat right soon. You see, my missus never met 
up with a real, live author.” 

“Thanks, Senator. I’ll be glad to meet your 
family. But suppose you forget that author 
stuff and just take me as a tenderfoot out to see 
the sights. I’ll like it better.” 

“Why, sure! And while the House is in 
session, I might rise to remark that I can’t help 
bein’ called ‘Senator,’ because I’m guilty. But, 


A LITTLE GREEN RIVER 


37 


honest, I always feel kinder toward my fellow- 
bein’s who call me just plain ‘Steve.’ ” 

“All right. I’ll take your word for it.” 

“Don’t you take my word for anything. How 
do you know but I might be tryin’ to sell you a 
gold mine.^” 

“I think the risk would be about even,” said 
Bartley. 

The Senator chuckled. “I just heard Wishful 
lopin’ down the hall with his bathin’ outfit, so I 
guess the right of way is clear again. And there 
goes the triangle.—sounds like the old ranch, 
that triangle. You see. Wishful used to be 
a cow-hand, and lots of cow-hands stop at this 
hotel when they’re in town. That triangle 
sounds like home to ’em. I’m stoppin’ here my¬ 
self. But I got a real bathroom out to the ranch. 
Let’s go down and look at some beef on the 
plate.” 


CHAPTER V 
“top hand once” 

Bartley happened to be alone on the veranda 
of the Antelope House that evening. Senator 
Brown and his “missus” had departed for their 
ranch. Mrs. Senator Brown had been a bit 
diffident when first meeting Bartley, but he soon 
put her at her ease with some amusing stories of 
Eastern experiences. The dinner concluded 
with an invitation from Mrs. Brown that antici¬ 
pated Bartley visiting the ranch and staying as 
long as he wished. The day following the 
Senator’s departure Bartley received a telegram 
from his friend in California, wishing him good 
luck and a pleasant journey in the Arizona 
country. The friend would see to Bartley’s 
baggage, as Bartley had forwarded the claim 
checks in his letter. 

The town was quiet and the stars were serene¬ 
ly brilliant. The dusty, rutted road past the 
hotel, dim gray in the starlight, muffied the 
tread of an occasional Navajo pony passing in 
the faint glow of light from the doorway. Bart¬ 
ley was content with things as he found them. 


TOP HAND ONCE 


39 


just then. But he knew that he would eventu¬ 
ally go away from there—^from the untidy town, 
the railroad, the string of box-cars on the siding, 
and seek the new, the unexpected, an experience 
to be had only by kicking loose from convention 
and stepping out for himself. He thought of 
writing a Western story. He realized that all he 
knew of the West was from hearsay, and a brief 
contact with actual Westerners. He would do 
better to go out in the fenceless land and live a 
story, and then write it. And better still, he would 
let chance decide where and when he would go. 

His first intimation that chance was in his 
vicinity was the distant, faint cadence of a song 
that fioated over the night-black mesa from the 
north. Presently he heard the soft, muffled 
tread of horses and a distinct word or two of the 
song. He leaned forward, interested, amused, 
alert. The voice was a big voice, mellowed by 
distance. There was a take-it-or-leave-it swing 
to the melody that suggested the singer’s abso¬ 
lute oblivion to anything but the joy of singing. 
Again the plod, plod of the horses, and then: 

I was top-hand once for the T-Bar-T, 

In the days of long ago. 

But I took to seein’ the scenery 

Where the barbed-wire fence don’t grow. 


40 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


I was top-hand once—^btit the trail for mine, 

And plenty of room to roam; 

So now I’m ridin’ the old chuck line, 

And any old place is home . . . for me . . . 

And any old place is home. 

Bartley grinned. Whoever he was, drifting 
in from the northern spaces, he had evidently 
lost the pack-horse that bore his troubles. Sud¬ 
denly, out of the wall of dusk that edged the strip 
of road loomed a horse’s head, and then another. 
The lead horse bore a pack. The second horse 
was ridden by an individual who leaned slightly 
forward, his hands clasped comfortably over the 
saddle horn. The horses stopped in the light of 
the doorway. 

“Well, I reckon we’re here,” said a voice. 
“But hotels and us ain’t in the same class. I 
stop at the Antelope House, take a look at her, 
and then spread my roll in the brush, same as 
always. Nobody to home.^^ They dan’t know 
what they’re missin’.” 

Bartley struck a match and lighted his cigar. 
The pack-horse jerked its head up. 

“Hello, stranger! Now I didn’t see you 
settin’ there.” 

“Good-evening! But why ‘stranger’ when 
you say you can’t see me?” 


TOP HAND ONCE 


41 


‘‘Why? ’Cause everybody knows mCy and 
you didn’t whoop when I rode up. Me, I’m 
Cheyenne, from no place, and likewise that’s 
where I’m goin’. This here town of Antelope 
got in the way—^towns is always gittin’ in my 
way^—^but nobody can help that. Is Wishful 
bedded down for the night or is he over to the 
Blue Front shootin’ craps?” 

‘T couldn’t say. I seem to be the only one 
around here, just now.” 

“That sure excuses me and the bosses. Wish¬ 
ful is down to the Blue Front, all right. It’s the 
only exercise he gets, regular.” Cheyenne 
pushed back the brim of his faded black Stetson 
and sighed heavily. Bartley caught a glimpse 
of a face as care-free as that of a happy child—• 
the twinkle of humorous eyes and a flash of white 
teeth as the other grinned. “Reckon you never 
heard tell of me,” said the rider, hooking his leg 
over the horn. 

I just arrived yesterday. I have not heard of 
you—^but I heard you down the road, singing. 
I like that song.” 

“One of my own. Yes, I come into town sing- 
in’ and I go out singin’. ’Course, we eat, when 
it’s handy. Singin’ sure keeps a fellow’s appe¬ 
tite from goin’ to sleep. Guess I’ll turn the 


42 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


bosses into Wishful’s corral and go find him. 
Reckon you had your dinner.” 

‘‘Several hours ago.” 

“Well, I had mine this mornin^ The dinner 
I had this mornin’ was the one I ought to had 
day before yesterday. But I aim to catch up—• 
and mebby get ahead a couple of eats, some 
day. But the bosses get theirs, regular. Come 
on, Filaree, we’ll go prospect the sleepin’- 
quarters.” 

Bartley sat back and smiled to himself as 
Cheyenne departed for the corral. This way¬ 
farer, breezing in from the spaces, suggested pos¬ 
sibilities as a character for a story No doubt 
the song was more or less autobiographical. “A 
top-hand once, but the trail for mine,” seemed 
to explain the singer’s somewhat erratic dinner 
schedule. Bartley thought that he would like 
to see more of this strange itinerant, who sang 
both coming into and going out of town. 

Presently Cheyenne was back, singing some¬ 
thing about a Joshua tree as he came. 

He stopped at the veranda rail. His smile 
was affable. “Guess I’ll go over and hunt up 
Wishful. I reckon you’ll have to excuse me for 
not refusin’ to accompany you to the Blue Front 
to get a drink.” 


TOP HAND ONCE 


43 


Bartley was puzzled. “Would you mind say¬ 
ing that again?” 

“Sure I don’t mind. I thought, mebby, you 
bein’ a stranger, settin’ there alone and lookin’ at 
the dark, that you was kind of lonesome. I said 
I reckoned you’d have to excuse me for not re¬ 
fusin’ to go over to the Blue Front and take a 
drink.” 

“I think I get you. I’ll buy. I’ll try any¬ 
thing, once.” 

Cheyenne grinned. “I kind of hate to drink 
alone, ’specially when I’m broke.” 

Bartley grinned in turn. “So do I. I sup¬ 
pose it is all right to leave. The door is wide 
open and there doesn’t seem to be any one in 
charge. 

“She sure is an orphan, to-night. But, honest, 
Mr.—” 

“Bartley.” 

“Mr. Bartley, nobody’d ever think of stealin’ 
anything from Wishful. Everybody likes Wish¬ 
ful ’round here. And strangers wouldn’t last 
long that tried to lift anything from his tepee. 
That is, not any longer than it would take Wish¬ 
ful to pull a gun—-and that ain’t long.” 

“If he caught them.” 

“Caught ’em? Say, stranger, how far do you 


44 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


think a man could travel out of here, before 
somebody’d get him? Anyhow, Wishful ain’t 
got nothin’ in his place worth stealin’.” 

‘‘Wishful doesn’t look very warlike,” said 
Bartley. 

“Nope. That’s right. He looks kind of like 
he’d been hit on the roof and hadn’t come to, 
yet. But did you ever see him shoot craps?” 

“No.” 

“Then you’ve got somethin’ cornin’, besides 
buyin’ me a drink.” 

Bartley laughed as he stepped down to the 
road. Bartley, a fair-sized man, was surprised 
to realize that the other was all of a head taller 
than himself. Cheyenne had not looked it in 
the saddle. 

“Are you acquainted with Senator Brown?” 
queried Bartley as he strode along beside the 
stiff-gaited outlander. 

Cheyenne stopped and pushed back his hat. 
“Senator Steve Brown? Say, pardner, me and 
Steve put this here country on the map. If 
kings was in style, Steve would be wearin’ a 
crown. Why, last election I wore out a pair of 
jeans lopin’ around this here country campaign¬ 
in’ for Steve. See this hat? Steve give me this 
hat—a genuwine J. B., the best they make. In- 


TOP HAND ONCE 


45 


side he had printed on the band, in gold, ‘From 
Steve to Cheyenne, hoping it will always fit.’ 
Do I know Steve Brown? Next time you see 
him just ask him about Cheyenne Hastings.” 

“I met the Senator, yesterday. Come to 
think of it, he did mention your name—-Chey¬ 
enne—^and said you knew the country.” 

“Was you lookin’ for a guide, mebby?” 

“Well, not exactly. But I hope to see some¬ 
thing of Arizona.” 

“Uh-huh. Well, I travel alone, mostly. But 
right now I’m fiat broke. If you was headin’ 
south— 

“I expect to visit Mr. and Mrs. Brown some 
day. Their ranch is south of here, I believe.” 

“Yep. Plumb south, on the Concho road. 
I’m ridin’ down that way.” 

“Well, we will talk about it later,” said Bart¬ 
ley as they entered the saloon. 

With a few exceptions, the men in the place 
were grouped round a long table, in the far end 
of the room, at the head of which stood Wishful 
evidently about to make a throw with the dice. 
No one paid the slightest attention to the arrival 
of Bartley and his companion, with the exception 
of the proprietor, who nodded to Bartley and 
spoke a word of greeting to Cheyenne. 


46 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


Bartley did the honors which included a sand¬ 
wich and a glass of beer for Cheyenne, who 
leaned with his elbow on the bar gazing at the 
men around the table. Out of the corner of his 
eye Bartley saw the proprietor touch Cheyenne’s 
arm and, leaning across the bar, whisper some¬ 
thing to him. Cheyenne straightened up and 
seemed to be adjusting his belt. Bartley caught 
a name: “Panhandle.” He turned and glanced 
at Cheyenne. 

The humorous expression had faded from 
Cheyenne’s face and in its stead there was a sort 
of grim, speculative line to the mouth, and no 
twinkle in the blue eyes. Bartley stepped over 
to the long table and watched the game. Craps, 
played by these free-handed sons of the open, 
had more of a punch than he had imagined 
possible. A pile of silver and bills lay on the 
table-—-a tidy sum—no less than two hundred 
dollars. 

Wishful, the sad-faced, seemed to be impor¬ 
tuning some one by the name of “Jimmy Hicks” 
to make himself known, as the dice rattled across 
the board. The players laughed as Wishful re¬ 
linquished the dice. A lean outlander, with a 
scarred face, took up the dice and made a throw. 
He evidently did not want to locate an individual 


TOP HAND ONCE 


47 


called ‘Xittle Joe,’’ whom he importuned inces¬ 
santly to stay away. 

Side bets were made and bills and silver with¬ 
drawn or added to the pile with a rapidity which 
amazed Bartley. Hitherto craps had meant to 
him three or four newsboys in an alley and a 
little pile of nickels and pennies. But this game 
was of robust proportions. It had pep and speed. 

Bartley became interested. His fingers itched 
to grasp the dice and try his luck. But he real¬ 
ized that his amateurish knowledge of the game 
would be an affront to those free-moving sons of 
the mesa. So he contented himself with watch¬ 
ing the game and the faces of the men as they 
won or lost. Bartley felt that some one was 
close behind him looking over his shoulder. 
Cheyenne’s eyes were fixed on the player known 
as “Panhandle,” and on no other person at that 
table. Bartley turned back to the game. 

Just then some one recognized Cheyenne and 
spoke his name. The game stopped and Bart¬ 
ley saw several of the men glance curiously from 
Cheyenne to the man known as “Panhandle.” 
Then the game was resumed, but it was a quieter 
game. One or two of the players withdrew. 

“Play a five for me,” said Bartley, turning to 
Cheyenne. 


48 


PAETNERS OF CHANCE 


“I’ll do that—-fifty-fifty,” said Cheyenne as 
Bartley stepped back and handed him a bill. 

Cheyenne straightway elbowed deeper into 
the group and finally secured the dice. Wish¬ 
ful, for some unknown reason, remarked that he 
would back Cheyenne to win—-“shootin’ with 
either hand,” Wishful concluded. Bartley no¬ 
ticed that again one or two players withdrew and 
strolled to the bar. Meanwhile, Cheyenne threw 
and sang a little song to himself. 

His throws were wild, careless, and lucky. 
Slowly he accumulated easy wealth. His fore¬ 
head was beaded with sweat, llis eyes glistened. 
He forgot his song. Bartley stepped over to the 
bar and chatted for a few minutes with the pro¬ 
prietor, mentioning Senator Steve and his wife. 

When Bartley returned to the game the play¬ 
ers had dwindled to a small group—-Wishful, the 
man called “Panhandle,” a fat Mexican, a rail¬ 
road engineer, and Cheyenne. 

Bartley turned to a bystander. 

“Cheyenne seems to be having all the luck,” 
he said. 

“Is he a friend of yours?” 

“Never saw him until to-night.” 

“He ain’t as lucky as you think,” stated the 
other significantly. 


TOP HAND ONCE 


49 


“How is that?’’ 

“Panhandle, the man with the scar on his face, 
ain’t no friend of Cheyenne’s.” 

“Oh, I see.” 

Bartley turned from the man, and watched 
the players. Wishful had withdrawn from the 
game, but he stood near the table, watching 
closely. Presently the fat Mexican quit playing 
and left. Cheyenne threw and won. He played 
as though the dice were his and he was giving an 
exhibition for the benefit of the other players. 
Finally the engineer quit, and counted his win¬ 
nings. Cheyenne and the man. Panhandle, 
faced each other, with Bartley standing close to 
Cheyenne and Wishful, who had moved around 
the table, standing close to Panhandle. 

Panhandle took up the dice. There was no 
joy in his play. He shot the dice across the 
table viciously. Every throw was a sort of 
insidious insult to his competitor, Cheyenne. 
Bartley was more interested in the performance 
than the actual winning or losing, although he 
realized that Cheyenne was still a heavy winner. 

Presently Wishful stepped over to Bartley 
and touched his arm. Panhandle and Chey¬ 
enne were intent upon their game. 

“You kin see better from that side of the 


50 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


table/’ said Wishful mildly, yet with a peculiar 
significance. 

Bartley glanced up, his face expressing be¬ 
wilderment. 

‘T seen you slip Cheyenne a bill,” murmured 
Wishful. ‘‘Accordin’ to that, you’re backin’ 
him. Thought I’d just mention it.” 

“I don’t understand what you’re driving at,” 
said Bartley. 

“That’s just why I spoke to you.” And 
Wishful’s face expressed a sort of sad wonder. 
But then, the Easterner had not been in town 
long and he did not know Panhandle. 

Wishful turned away casually. Bartley no¬ 
ticed that he again took up his position near 
Panhandle. 

This time Panhandle glanced up and asked 
Wishful if he didn’t want to come into the game. 

Wishful shook his head. “No use tryin’ to 
bust his luck,” he said, indicating Cheyenne. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Panhandle. 

“And he’s got good backin’,” continued 
Wishful. 

Panhandle slanted a narrow glance toward 
Bartley, and Bartley felt that the other had 
somehow or other managed to convey an insult 
and a challenge in that glance, which suggested 


TOP HAND ONCE 


51 


the contempt of the tough Westerner for the 
supposedly tender Easterner. 

Bartley did not know just what was on the 
boards, aside from dice and money, but he took 
Wishful’s hint and moved around to Panhandle’s 
side of the table, leaving Cheyenne facing his 
competitor alone. Bartley happened to catch 
Cheyenne’s eye. The happy-go-lucky expression 
was gone. Cheyenne’s face seemed troubled, 
yet he played with his former vigor and luck. 

Panhandle posed insolently, his thumb in his 
belt, watching the dice. He was all but broke. 
Cheyenne kept rolling the bones, but now he 
evoked no aid from the gods of African golf. 
His lips were set in a thin line. 

Suddenly he tossed up the dice, caught them 
and transferred them to his right hand. Hither¬ 
to he had been shooting with his left. ‘T’ll 
shoot you, either hand,” he said. 

‘‘And win,” murmured Wishful. 

Panhandle whirled and confronted Wishful. 
“I don’t see any of your money on the table,” 
he snarled. 

“I’ll come in—on the next game,” stated 
Wishful mildly. 

Panhandle’s last dollar was on the table. He 
reached forward and drew a handful of bills 


52 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


from the pile and counted them. ‘‘Fifty,” he 
said; “fifty against the pot that you don’t make 
your next throw.” 

“Suits me,” said Cheyenne, picking up the 
dice and shaking them. 

Cheyenne threw and won on the third try. 
Panhandle reached toward the pile of money 
again. 

Cheyenne, who had not picked up the dice, 
stopped him. “You can’t play on that money,” 
he stated tensely. “Half of it belongs to Mr. 
Bartley, there.” 

“What have you got to say about it,” chal¬ 
lenged Panhandle, turning to Bartley. 

“Half of the money on the table is mine, ac¬ 
cording to agreement. I backed Cheyenne to 
win.” 

“No dam’ tenderfoot can tell me where to 
head in!” exclaimed Panhandle. “Go on and 
shoot, you yella-bellied waddie!” And Pan¬ 
handle reached toward the money. 

“Just a minute,” said Bartley quietly. “The 
game is finished.” 

“Take your mouth out of this, you dam’ 
dude!” 

“Put your gun on the table—and then tell me 
that,” said Bartley. 


TOP HAND ONCE 


53 


Panhandle lowered his hand to his gun, hesi¬ 
tated, and then whirling, slapped Bartley’s 
face. 

Wishful, the silent, jerked out his own gun 
and rapped Panhandle on the head. Pan¬ 
handle dropped in a heap. 

It had happened so quickly that Bartley 
hardly realized what had happened. Pan¬ 
handle was on the floor, literally down and 
out. Bartley was surprised that such an ap¬ 
parently light tap on the head should put a man 
out. 

“Get him out of here,” said Tom, the pro¬ 
prietor. “I don’t want any rough stuff in here. 
And if I were in your boots, Cheyenne, I’d leave 
town for a while.” 

“I’m leavin’ to-morrow mornin’.” Cheyenne 
was coolly counting his winnings. 

Wishful, the silent, doused a glass of water 
in Panhandle’s face. Presently Panhandle was 
revived and helped from the saloon. His former 
attitude of belligerency had entirely evaporated. 
Wishful followed him to the hitch-rail and saw 
him mount his horse. 

“Your best bet is to fan it back where you 
come from, and stay there,” said Wishful 
softly. “You don’t belong in this town, and 


54 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


you can’t go slappin’ any of my guests in the 
face and get away with it. And when you git 
so you can think it over, just figure that if I 
hadn’t ’a’ slowed you down, Cheyenne would 
’a’ killed you.” 

Panhandle did not feel like discussing the 
question just then. He left without even 
turning to glance back. If he had glanced 
back, he would have seen that Wishful had 
disappeared. Wishful, familiar with the ways 
of Panhandle and his kind, immediately sought 
the shadows, leaving the lighted doorway a 
blank. He entered the saloon from the rear. 

Cheyenne was endeavoring to make Bartley 
take half of the winnings. “You staked me— 
and it’s fifty-fifty, pardner,” insisted Cheyenne. 

Finally Bartley accepted his share of the 
money and stuffed it into his pocket. 

“Now I can get back at you,” stated Chey¬ 
enne, gesturing toward the bar. 

His gesture included both Wishful and Bart¬ 
ley. Bartley, a bit shaken, accepted the invita¬ 
tion. Wishful, not at all shaken, but rather a 
bit more silent and melancholy than heretofore, 
also accepted. 

Alone in his room at the hotel, Bartley won¬ 
dered what would have happened if Wishful 


TOP HAND ONCE 


55 


had not rapped Panhandle on the head. Bartley 
recalled the fact that he had drawn back his 
arm, intending to take one good punch at Pan¬ 
handle, even if it were his last. But Panhandle 
had crumpled down suddenly, silently, and 
Wishful had stood over him, gazing down 
speculatively and swinging his gun back and 
forth before he returned it to the holster. “They 
move quick, in this country,” thought Bartley. 
“And speaking of material for a story—” Then 
he smiled. 

Somewhere out on the mesa Cheyenne had 
spread his bed-roll and was no doubt sleeping 
peacefully. Bartley shook his head. He had 
been in Antelope but two days and yet it seemed 
that months had passed since he had stepped 
from the westbound train to telegraph to his 
friend in California. Incidentally, he decided 
to purchase an automatic pistol. 


CHAPTER VI 

A HORSE-TRADE 

When Bartley came down to breakfast next 
morning he noticed two horses tied at the hitch- 
rail in front of the hotel. One of the horses, a 
rather stocky gray, bore a pack. The other, a 
short-coupled, sturdy buckskin, was saddled. 
Evidently Cheyenne was trying to catch up 
with his dinner schedule, for as Bartley entered 
the dining-room he saw him, sitting face to face 
with a high stack of flapjacks, at the base of 
which reposed two fried eggs among some curled 
slivers of bacon. 

Two railroad men, a red-eyed Eastern tour¬ 
ist who looked as though he had not slept for a 
week, a saturnine cattleman in from the mesas, 
and two visiting ladies from an adjacent town 
comprised the tale of guests that morning. As 
Bartley came in the guests glanced at him curi¬ 
ously. They had heard of the misunderstanding 
at the Blue Front. 

Cheyenne immediately rose and offered Bart¬ 
ley a chair at his table. The two women, alone 
at their table, immediately became subdued 


A HORSE-TRADE 


57 


and watchful. They were gazing their first 
upon an author. Wishful had made the fact 
known, with some pride. The ladies, whom 
Cheyenne designated as “cow-bunnies,”—or 
wives of ranchers,—were dressed in their “best 
clothes,” and were trying to live up to them. 
They had about finished breakfast, and shortly 
after Bartley was seated they rose. On their 
way out they stopped at Cheyenne’s table. 

“Don’t forget to stop by when you ride our 
way,” said one of the women. 

Bartley noticed the toil-worn hands, and 
the lines that hard work and worry had graven 
in her face. Her “best clothes” rather ac¬ 
centuated these details. But back of it all he 
sensed the resolute spirit of the West, resource¬ 
ful, progressive, large-visioned. 

“Meet Mr. Bartley,” said Cheyenne un¬ 
expectedly. 

Which was just what the two women had 
been itching to do, Bartley rose and shook 
hands with them. 

“A couple of lady friends of mine,” said 
Cheyenne when they had gone. 

Cheyenne made no mention of the previous 
evening’s game, or its climax. Yet Bartley had 
gathered from Wishful that Panhandle Sears 


58 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


and Cheyenne had an unsettled quarrel between 
them. 

In the hotel office Cheyenne purchased cigars 
and proffered Bartley a half-dozen. Bartley 
took one. Cheyenne seemed disappointed. 
When cigars were going round, it seemed strange 
not to take full advantage of the circumstance. 
As they stepped out to the veranda, the horses 
recognized Cheyenne and nickered gently. 

‘‘Going southqueried Bartley. 

“That’s me. I got the silver changed to 
bills and some of the bills changed to grub. 
I reckon I’ll head south. Kind of wish you 
was headed that way.” 

Bartley bit the end from his cigar and lighted 
it, as he gazed out across the morning mesa. 
A Navajo buck loped past and jerked his little 
paint horse to a stop at the drug-store. 

Cheyenne, pulling up a cinch, smiled at 
Bartley. 

“That Injun was in a hurry till he got here. 
And he’ll be in a hurry, leavin’. But you 
notice how easy he takes it right now. Injuns 
has got that dignity idea down fine.” 

“Did he come in for medicine, perhaps?” 

“Mebby. But most like he’s after chewin’- 
gum for his squaw, and cigarettes for himself, 


59 


A HORSE-TRADE 
with a bottle of red pop on the side. Injuns 
always buy red pop.” 

‘‘Cigarettes and chewing-gum?” 

“Sure thing! Didn’t you ever see a squaw 
chew gum and smoke a tailor-made cigarette 
at the same time? You didn’t, eh? Well, 
then, you got somethin’ cornin’.” 

“Romance!” laughed Bartley. 

“Ever sleep in a Injun hogan?” queried Chey¬ 
enne as he busied himself adjusting the pack. 

“No. This is my first trip West.” 

“I was forgettin’. Well, I ain’t what you’d 
call a dude, but, honest, if I was prospectin’ 
round lookin’ for Injun romance I’d use a pair 
of field-glasses. Injuns is all right if you’re 
far enough up wind from ’em.” 

“When do you start?” asked Bartley. 

“Oh, ’most any time. And that’s when I’ll 
get there.” 

“Well, give my regards to Senator Brown and 
his wife, if you happen to see them.” 

“Sure thing! I’m on my way. You know— 

I was top-hand once—but the trail for mine: 

Git along, cayuse, git along! 

But now I’m ridin* the old chuck line, 

Feedin’ good and a-feelin’ fine: 

Oh, some folks eat and some folks dine. 

Git along, cayuse, git along! 


m 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


Bartley smiled. Here was the real hobo, 
the irrepressible absolute. Cheyenne stepped 
up and swung to the saddle with the effortless 
ease of the old hand. Bartley noticed that the 
pack-horse had no lead-rope, nor had he been 
tied. Bartley did not know that Filaree, the 
pack-horse, would never let Joshua, the saddle- 
horse, out of his sight. They had traveled the 
Arizona trails together for years. 

In spite of his happy-go-lucky indifference 
to persons and events, Cheyenne had a sort 
of intuitive shrewdness in reading humans. 
And he read in Bartley’s glance a half-awak¬ 
ened desire to outfit and hit the trail himself. 
But Cheyenne departed without suggesting any 
such idea. Every man for himself was his 
motto. ‘‘And as for me,” he added, aloud: 

Seems like I don’t git anywhere. 

Git along, cay use, git along; 

But we’re leavin’ here and we’re goin’ there; 
Git along, cayuse, git along! 

With little ole Josh that steps right free. 

And my ole gray pack-hoss, Filaree, 

The world ain’t got no rope on me: 

Git along, cayuse, git along! 

Bartley watched him as he crossed the raih 
Toad tracks and turned down a side street. 


A HORSE-TRADE 


61 


Back in his room Bartley paced up and down, 
keeping time to the tune of Cheyenne’s trail 
song. The morning sun poured down upon the 
station roof opposite, and danced flickering 
across the polished tracks of the railroad. Pres¬ 
ently Bartley stopped pacing his room and stood 
at the window. Far out across the mesa he saw 
a rider, drifting along in the sunshine, followed 
by a gray pack-horse. 

‘‘By George!” exclaimed Bartley. “He may 
be a sort of wandering joke to the citizens of 
this State, but he’s doing what he wants to do, 
and that’s more than I’m doing. Just fifty 
miles to Senator Brown’s ranch. Drop in and 
see us. As the chap in Denver said when he 
wrote to his friend in El Paso: ‘Drop into 
Denver some evening and I’ll show you the 
sights.’ Distance.^ Negligible. Time.^ An 
inconsequent factor. Big stuff! As for me, I 
think I’ll go downstairs and interview the pen¬ 
sive Wishful.” 

Wishful had the Navajo blankets and chairs 
piled up in the middle of the hotel office and 
was thoughtfully sweeping out cigar ashes, 
cigarette stubs, and burned matches. Wishful, 
besides being proprietor of the Antelope House, 
was chambermaid, baggage-wrangler, clerk, ad- 


62 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


vertising manager, and, upon occasion, waiter 
in his own establishment. And he kept a neat 
place. 

Bartley walked over to the desk. Wishful 
kept on sweeping. Bartley glanced at the signa¬ 
tures on the register. Near the bottom of the 
page he found Cheyenne’s name, and opposite 
it ‘‘Arizona.” 

“Where does Cheyenne beiong, anyway.^” 
queried Bartley. 

Wishful stopped sweeping and leaned on his 
broom. “Wherever he happens to be.” And 
Wishful sighed and began sweeping again. 

“What sort of traveling companion would he 
make?” 

Wishful stopped sweeping. His melancholy 
gaze was fixed on a defunct cigar. “Never 
heard either of his bosses object to his com¬ 
pany,” he replied. 

Bartley grinned and glanced up and down the 
register. Wishful dug into a corner with his 
broom. Something shot rattling across the 
floor. Wishful laid down the broom and upon 
hands and knees began a search. Presently 
he rose. A slow smile illumined his face. He 
had found a pair of dice in the litter on the 
floor. He made a throw, shook his head, and 


A HORSE-TRADE 


63 


picked up the dice. His sweeping became more 
sprightly. Amused by the preoccupation of the 
lank and cautiously humorous Wishful, Bartley 
touched the bell on the desk. Wishful promptly 
stood his broom against the wall, rolled down 
his sleeves, and stepped behind the counter. 

“I think I’ll pay my bill,” said Bartley. 

Wishful promptly named the amount. Bart¬ 
ley proffered a ten-dollar bill. 

Wishful searched in the till for change. He 
shook his head. ‘‘You got two dollars corn¬ 
in’,” he stated. 

“ITl shake you for that two dollars,” said 
Bartley. 

Wishful’s tired eyes lighted up. “You said 
somethin’.” And he produced the dice. 

Just then the distant “Zoom” of the west¬ 
bound Overland shook the silence. Wishful 
hesitated, then gestured magnificently toward 
space. What was the arrival of a mere train, 
with possibly a guest or so for the hotel, com¬ 
pared with a game of craps? 

While they played, the train steamed in and 
was gone. Wishful won the two dollars. 

Bartley escaped to the veranda and his re¬ 
flections. Presently he rose and strolled round 
to the corral. Wishful’s three saddle-animals 


64 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


were lazying in the heat. Bartley was not 
unfamiliar with the good points of a horse. He 
rejected the sorrel with the Roman nose, as 
stubborn and foolish. The flea-bitten gray was 
all horse, but he had a white-rimmed eye. The 
chestnut bay was a big, hardy animal, but he 
appeared rather slow and deliberate. Yet he 
had good, solid feet, plenty of bone, deep with¬ 
ers, and powerful hindquarters. 

Bartley stepped round to the hotel. ‘‘Have 
you a minute to spare?” he queried as Wishful 
finished rearranging the furniture of the lobby. 

Wishful had. He followed Bartley round to 
the corral. 

“I’m thinking of buying a saddle-horse,” 
stated Bartley. 

Wishful leaned his elbows on the corral bar. 
“Why don’t you rent one—and turn him in 
when you’re through with him.” 

“I’d rather own one, and I may use him a 
long time.” 

“I ain’t sufferin’ to sell any of my bosses, 
Mr. Bartley. But I wouldn’t turn down a fair 
offer.” 

“Set a price on that sorrel,” said Bartley. 

Now, Wishful was willing to part with the 
sorrel, which was showy and looked fast. Bart- 


A HORSE-TRADE 


65 


ley did not want the animal. He merely wanted 
to arrive at a basis from which to work. 

“Well/’ drawled Wishful, “I’d let him go for 
a hundred.” 

“What will you take for the gray.^” 

“Him? Well, he’s the best hoss I got. I 
don’t think he’s your kind of a hoss.” 

“The best, eh? And a hundred for the sor¬ 
rel.” Bartley appeared to reflect. 

Wishful really wanted to sell the gray, de¬ 
scribing him as the best horse he owned to 
awaken Bartley’s interest. The best horse in 
the corral was the big bay cow-horse; but Wish¬ 
ful had no idea that Bartley knew that. 

“Would you put a price on the gray?” queried 
Bartley. 

“Why, sure! You can have him, for a hun¬ 
dred and twenty-five.” 

“A hundred for the sorrel—and a hundred 
and twenty-five for the gray; is that correct?” 

“Yep.” 

“And you say the gray is the best horse in the 
corral?” 

“He sure is!” 

“All right. I’ll give you a hundred for that 
big bay, there. I don’t want to rob you of your 
best horse. Wishful.” 


66 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


Wishful saw that he was cornered. He had 
cornered himself, premising that the Easterner 
didn’t know horses. ‘"That bay ain’t much 
account, Mr. Bartley. He’s slow—nothin’ but 
a ole cow-hoss I kind of keep around for odd 
jobs of ropin’ and such.” 

“Well, he’s good enough for me. I’ll give 
you a hundred for him.” 

Wishful scratched his head. He did not want 
to sell the bay for that sum, yet he was too good 
a sport to go back on his word. 

“Say, where was you raised?” he queried 
abruptly. 

“In Kentucky.” 

“Hell, I thought you was from New York?” 

“I lived in Kentucky until I was twenty- 
five.” 

“Was your folks hoss-traders?” 

“Not exactly,” laughed Bartley. “My father 
always kept a few good saddle-horses, however.” 

“Uh-huh? I reckon he did. And you ain’t 
forgot what a real hoss looks like, either.” 
Wishful’s pensive countenance lighted sud¬ 
denly. “You’ll be wantin’ a rig—saddle and 
bridle and slicker and saddle-bags. Now I got 
just what you want.” 

Bartley stepped to the stable and inspected 


A HORSE-TRADE 


67 


the outfit. It was old and worn, and worth, 
Bartley estimated, about thirty dollars, all told.' 

“ITl let you have the whole outfit—hoss and 
rig and all, for two hundred,” stated Wishful 
unblushingly. 

“I priced a saddle, over in the shop across 
from the station, this morning,” said Bartley. 
‘‘With bridle and blanket and saddle-pockets it 
would only stand me ninety dollars. If the bay 
is the poorest horse you own, then at your 
figure this outfit would come rather high.” 

“I might ’a’ knowed it!” stated Wishful. 
“Say, Mr. Bartley, give me a hundred and fifty 
for the hoss and I’ll throw in the rig.” 

“No. I know friendship ceases when a horse- 
trade begins; but I am only taking you at your 
word.” 

“I sure done overlooked a bet, this trip,” 
said Wishful. “Say, I reckon you must ’a’ cut 
your first tooth on a cinch-ring. I done learnt 
somethin’ this mornin’. Private eddication 
comes high, but I’m game. Write your check 
for a hundred—and take the bay. By rights 
I ought to give him to you, seein’ as how you 
done roped and branded me for a blattin’ yearl- 
in’ the first throw; and you been out West just 
three days! You’ll git along in this country.” 


68 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


“I hope so,” laughed Bartley. ‘‘Speaking 
of getting along, I plan to visit Senator Brown. 
How long will it take me to get there, riding 
the bay?” 

“He’s got a runnin’ walk that is good for 
six miles an hour. He’s a walkin’ fool. And 
anything you git your rope on, he’ll hold it till 
you’re gray-headed and got whiskers. That 
ole hoss is the best cow-hoss in Antelope County 
—-and I’m referrin’ you to Steve Brown to back 
me up. I bought that hoss from Steve. Any 
time you see the Box-S brand on a hoss, you 
can figure he’s a good one.” 

“I suppose I’d have to camp on the mesa two 
or three nights,” said Bartley. 

“Nope! Ole Dobe’ll make it in two days. 
He don’t look fast, but the trail sure fades be¬ 
hind him when he’s travelin’. I’m kind of 
glad you didn’t try to buy the Antelope House. 
You’d started in pricin’ the stable, and kind of 
milled around and ast me what I’d sell the 
kitchen for, and afore I knowed it, you’d ’a’ had 
me selling the hotel for less than the stable. I fig¬ 
ure you’d made a amazin’ hand at shootin’ craps.” 

“Let’s step over and buy that saddle, and 
the rest of it. Will you engineer the deal? I 
don’t know much about Western saddlery.” 


A HORSE-TRADE 


69 


‘‘Shucks! You can take that ole rig I was 
showin’ you. She ain’t much on looks, but she’s 
all there.” 

“Thanks. But I’d rather buy a new outfit.” 

“When do you aim to start?” 

“Right away. I suppose I’ll need a blanket 
and some provisions.” 

“Yes. But you’ll catch up with Cheyenne, 
if you keep movin’. He won’t travel fast with a 
pack-hoss along. He’ll most like camp at the 
first water, about twenty-five miles south. But 
you can pack some grub in your saddle-bags, 
and play safe. And take a canteen along.” 

Wishful superintended the purchasing of the 
new outfit, and seemed unusually keen about 
seeing Bartley well provided for at the minimum 
cost. Wishful’s respect for the Easterner had 
been greatly enhanced by the recent horse-deal. 
W"hen it came to the question of clothing. Wish¬ 
ful wisely suggested overalls and a rowdy, as 
being weather and brush proof. Incidentally 
Wishful asked Bartley why he had paid his bill 
before he had actually prepared to start on the 
journey. Bartley told Wishful that he would not 
have prepared to start had he not paid the bill 
on impulse. 

“Well, some folks git started on impulse. 


70 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


afore they pay their bills, and keep right on 
fannin’ it,’’ asserted Wishful. 

An hour later Bartley was ready for the trail. 
With some food in the saddle-pockets, a blanket 
tied behind the cantle, and a small canteen 
hung on the horn, he felt equipped to make the 
journey. Wishful suggested that he stay until 
after the noon hour, but Bartley declined. He 
would eat a sandwich or two on the way. 

‘‘And ole Dobe knows the trail to Steve’s 
ranch,” said Wishful, as he walked around horse 
and rider, giving them a final inspection. “And 
you don’t have to cinch ole Dobe extra tight,” 
he advised. “He carries a saddle good. ’Course 
that new leather will stretch some.” 

“How old is Dobe?” queried Bartley. “You 
keep calling him ‘old.’ ” 

“I seen you mouthin’ him, after you had 
saddled him. How old would you say?” 

“Seven, going on eight.” 

“Git along! And if anybody gits the best 
of you in a hoss-trade, wire me collect. It’ll 
sure be news!” 

Bartley settled himself in the saddle and 
touched Dobe with the spurs. 

“Give my regards to Senator Steve—and 
Cheyenne,” called Wishful. 


A HORSE-TRADE 


n 


.WisMuI stood gazing after his recent guest 
until he had disappeared around a corner. 
Then Wishful strode into the hotel office and 
marked a blue cross on the big wall calendar. 
A humorous smile played about his mouth. It 
was a mark to indicate the day and date that 
an Eastern tenderfoot had got the best of him 
in a horse-deal. 


CHAPTER VII 

AT THE WATER-HOLE 

Before Bartley had been riding an hour he 
knew that he had a good horse under him. 
Dobe ^‘followed his head” and did not flirt with 
his shadow, although he was grain-fed and ready 
to go. When Dobe trotted—-an easy, swinging 
trot that ate into the miles^—Bartley tried to 
post, English style. But Dobe did not under¬ 
stand that style of riding a trot. Each time 
Bartley raised in the stirrups, Dobe took it for 
a signal to lope. Finally Bartley caught the 
knack of leaning forward and riding a trot with 
a straight leg, and to his surprise he found it 
was a mighty satisfactory method and much 
easier than posting. 

The mesa trail was wide—in reality a cross¬ 
country road, so Bartley had opportunity to try 
Dobe’s different gaits. The running walk was a 
joy to experience, the trot was easy, and the 
lope as regular and smooth as the swing of a 
pendulum. Finally Bartley settled to the best 
long-distance gait of all, the running walk, and 
began to enjoy the vista; the wide-sweeping. 


AT THE WATER-HOLE 


73 


southern reaches dotted with buttes, the line of 
the far hills crowded against the sky, and the 
intense light in which there was no faintest trace 
of blur or moisture. Everything within normal 
range of vision stood out clean-edged and defi¬ 
nite. 

Unaccustomed to riding a horse that neck- 
reined at the merest touch, and one that stopped 
at the slightest tightening of the rein, Bartley 
had to learn through experience that a spade bit 
requires delicate handling. He was jogging 
along easily when he turned to glance back at 
the town^—-now a far, huddled group of tiny 
buildings. Inadvertently he tightened rein. 
Dobe stopped short. Bartley promptly went 
over the fork and slid to the ground. 

Dobe gazed down at his rider curiously, 
ears cocked forward, as though trying to under¬ 
stand just what his rider meant to do next. 
Bartley expected to see the horse whirl and 
leave for home. But Dobe stood patiently 
until his rider had mounted. Bartley glanced 
round covertly, wondering if any one had wit¬ 
nessed his impromptu descent. Then he 
laughed, realizing that it was a long way to 
Central Park, flat saddles and snaflSes. 

A little later he ate two of the sandwiches 


74 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


Wishful had thoughtfully provided, and drank 
from the canteen. Gradually the shadows of 
the buttes lengthened. The afternoon heat 
ebbed away in little, infrequent puffs of wind. 
The western reaches of the great mesa seemed 
to expand, while the southern horizon drew 
nearer. 

Presently Bartley noticed pony tracks on 
the road, and either side of the tracks the mark 
of wheels. Here the wagon had swung aside to 
avoid a bit of bad going, yet the tracks of two 
horses still kept the middle of the road. ‘‘Sena¬ 
tor Brown^—^and Cheyenne,” thought Bartley, 
studying the tracks. He became interested in 
them. Here, again, Cheyenne had dismounted, 
possibly to tighten a cinch. There was the stub 
of a cigarette. Farther along the tracks were 
lost in the rocky ground of the petrified forest. 
He had made twenty miles without realizing it. 

Winding in and out among the shattered and 
fallen trunks of those prehistoric trees, Bartley 
forgot where he was until he passed the bluish- 
gray sweep of burned earth edging the forest. 
Presently a few dwarf junipers appeared. He 
was getting higher, although the mesa seemed 
level. Again he discovered the tracks of the 
horses in the powdered red clay of the road. 


AT THE WATER-HOLE 


75 


He crossed a shallow arroyo, sandy and wide. 
Later he came suddenly upon a red clay cut- 
bank, and a hint of water where the bank shad¬ 
owed the mud-smeared rocks. He rode slowly, 
preoccupied in studying the country. The sun 
showed close to the rim of the world when he 
finally realized that, if he meant to get anywhere, 
he had better be about it. Dobe promptly 
caught the change of his rider’s mental attitude 
and stepped out briskly. Bartley patted the 
horse’s neck. 

It was a pleasure to ride an animal that 
seemed to want to work with a man and not 
against him. The horse had cost one hundred 
dollars^— sl fair price for such a horse in those 
days. Yet Bartley thought it a very reason¬ 
able price. And he knew he had a bargain. 
He felt clearly confident that the big cow- 
pony would serve him in any circumstance or 
hazard. 

As a long, undulating stretch of road ap¬ 
peared, softly brown in the shadows, Bartley 
began to look about for the water-hole which 
Wishful had spoken about. The sun slipped 
from sight. The dim, gray road reached on and 
on, shortening in perspective as the quick night 
swept down. 


76 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


Beyond and about was a dusky wall through 
which loomed queer shapes that seemed to move 
and change until, approached, they became 
junipers. Bartley’s gaze became fixed upon the 
road. That, at least, was a reality. He reached 
back and untied his coat and swung into it. An 
early star flared over the southern hills. He won¬ 
dered if he had passed the water-hole. He had 
a canteen, but Dobe would need water. But 
Dobe was thoroughly familiar with the trail 
from Antelope to the White Hills. And Dobe 
smelled the presence of his kind, even while 
Bartley, peering ahead in the dusk, rode on, 
not aware that some one was camped within 
calling distance of the trail. A cluster of junipers 
hid the faint glow of the camp-fire. 

Dobe stopped suddenly. Bartley urged him 
on. For the first time the big horse showed an 
inclination to ignore the rein. Bartley gazed 
round, saw nothing in particular, and spoke to 
the horse, urging him forward. Dobe turned 
and marched deliberately away from the road, 
heading toward the west, and nickered. From 
behind the screen of junipers came an answering 
nicker. Bartley hallooed. No one answered 
him. Yet Dobe seemed to know what he was 
about. He plodded on, down a slight grade. 


AT THE WATER-HOLE 


77 


Suddenly the soft glow of a camp-fire illumined 
the hollow. 

A blanket-roll, a saddle, a coil of rope, and a 
battered canteen and the fire—but no habitant 
of the camp. 

“Hello!” shouted Bartley. 

Dobe shied and snorted as a figure loomed in 
the dusk, and Cheyenne was peering up at him. 

“Is this the water-hole?” Bartley asked 
inanely. 

“This is her. I’m sure glad to see you! I 
feel like a plumb fool for standin’ you up that 
way—but I didn’t quite get you till I seen your 
face. I thought I knowed your voice, but I 
never did see you in jeans, and ridin’ a hoss 
before. And that hat ain’t like the one you wore 
in Antelope.” 

“Then you didn’t know just what to expect?” 

“I wa’n’t sure. But say, I got some coffee 
goin’—and some bacon. Light down and give 
your saddle a rest.” 

“I’ll just water my horse and stake him out 
and—” 

“I’ll show you where. I see you’re ridin’ 
Dobe. Wishful rent him to you?” 

“No. I bought him.” 

“If you don’t mind tollin’ me—how much?” 


78 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


“A hundred.” 

“Was Wishful drunk?” 

“No.” 

“Well, you got a real hoss, there. The water 
is right close. Old Dobe knows where it is. 
Just lift off your saddle and turn him loose—^or 
mebby you better hobble him the first night. 
He ain’t used to travelin’ with you, yet.” 

“I have a stake-rope,” said Bartley. 

“A hoss would starve on a stake-rope out here. 
I’ll make you a pair of hobbles, pronto. Then 
he’ll stick with my bosses.” 

“Where are they?” 

“Runnin’ around out there somewhere. They 
never stray far from camp.” 

Bartley watched Cheyenne untwist a piece 
of soft rope and make a pair of serviceable 
hobbles. 

“Now he’ll travel easy and git enough grass 
to keep him in shape. And them hobbles won’t 
burn him. Any time you’re shy of hobbles, 
that’s how to make ’em.” 

Later, as Bartley sat by the fire and ate, 
Cheyenne asked him if Panhandle had been seen 
in town since the night of the crap game. Bart¬ 
ley told him that he had seen nothing of Pan¬ 
handle. 


AT THE WATER-HOLE 


79 


‘‘He’s ridin’ this country, somewhere,” said 
Cheyenne. “You’re headed for Steve’s ranch?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, Steve’U sure give you the time of your 
life.” 

“I think I’ll stay there a few days, if the 
Senator can make room for me.” 

“Room! Wait till you see Steve’s place. 
And say, if you want to get wise to how they run 
a cattle outfit, just throw in with the boys, tell 
’em you’re a plumb tenderfoot and can’t ride a 
bronc, nohow, and that you never took down a 
rope in your life, and that all you know about 
cattle is what you’ve et, and then the boys will 
use you white. There’s nothin’ puts a fella in 
wrong with the boys quicker than for him to let 
on he is a hand when he ain’t. ’Course the boys 
won’t mind seein’ you top a bronc and get 
throwed, just to see if you got sand.” 

Meanwhile Cheyenne manipulated the coffee¬ 
pot and skillet most effectively. And while 
Bartley ate his supper, Cheyenne talked, seem¬ 
ingly glad to have a companion to talk to. 

“You see,” he began, apropos of nothing in 
particular, “entertainin’ folks with the latest 
news is my long suit. I’m kind of a travelin’ 
show, singin’ and packin’ the news around to 


80 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


everybody. ’Course folks read the paper and 
hear about somebody gettin’ married, or gettin’ 
shot or leavin’ the country, and then they ask 
me the how of it. I been ramblin’ so long that 
I know the pedigrees of ’most everybody down 
this way. 

‘‘Newspapers is all right, but folks get plumb 
hungry to git their news with human trimmin’s. 
I recollec’ I come mighty near gettin’ in trouble, 
onct. Steve had some folks visitin’ down to his 
ranch. They was new to the country, and seems 
they locked horns with a outfit runnin’ sheep 
just south of Springerville. Now, I hadn’t been 
down that way for about six months, but I had 
heard of that ruckus. So after Steve lets me 
sing a couple of songs, and I got to feelin’ com¬ 
fortable with them new folks, I set to and tells 
’em about the ruckus down near Springerville. 
I guess the fella that told me must ’a’ got his 
reins crossed, for pretty soon Steve starts to 
laugh and turns to them visitors and says: 
‘How about it, Mr. Smith 

“Now, Smith was the fella that had the ruck¬ 
us, and I’d been tellin’ how that sheep outfit had 
run him out of the country. He was a young, 
long, spindlin’ hombre from Texas—a reg’lar 
Whicker-bill, with that drawlin’ kind of a voice 


AT THE WATER-HOLE 


81 


that bosses and folks listen to. I knowed he was 
from Texas the minute I seen him, but I sure 
didn’t know he was the man I was talkin’ about. 

“Everybody laughed but him and his wife. 
I reckon she was feelin’ her oats, visitin’ at the 
Senator’s house. I don’t know what she said 
to her husband, but, anyhow, afore I left for the 
bunk-house that evenin’, he says, slow and easy^ 
that if I was around there next mornin’, he 
would explain all about that ruckus to me, when 
the ladies weren’t present, so I wouldn’t get it 
wrong, next time. I seen I had made a mistake 
for myself, and I didn’t aim to make another, so 
I just kind of eased off and faded away, bushin^ 
down that night a far piece from Senator Steve’s 
ranch. I know them Whicker-bills and I didn’t 
want to tangle with any of ’em.” 

“Afraid you’d get shot?” queried Bartley, 
laughing. 

“Shot? Me? No, pardner. I was afraid 
that Texas gent would get shot. You see, he 
was married—and I—ain’t.” 

Bartley lay back on his saddle and gazed up 
at the stars. The little fire had died down to a 
dot of red. A coyote yelped in the far dusk. 
Another coyote replied. Cheyenne rose and 
threw some wood on the fire. Then he stepped 


82 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


down to the water-hole and washed the plates 
and cups. Bartley could hear the peculiar 
thumping sound of hobbled horses moving about 
on the mesa. Cheyenne returned to the fire, 
picked up his bed-roll, and marched off into the 
bushes. Bartley wondered why he should take 
the trouble to move his bed-roll such a distance 
from the water-hole. 

“Pack your saddle and blanket over, when you 
feel like turnin’ in,” said Cheyenne. “And you 
might throw some dirt on that fire. I ain’t lookin’ 
for visitors down this way, but you can’t tell.” 

Bartley carried his saddle out to the distant 
clump of junipers. 

“Just shed your coat and boots and turn in,” 
invited Cheyenne. 

Bartley was not sleepy, and for a long time he 
lay gazing up at the stars. Presently he heard 
Cheyenne snore. The Big Dipper grew dim. 
Then a coyote yelped —n shrill cadence of mock¬ 
ing laughter. “I wonder what the joke is?” 
Bartley thought drowsily. 

Sometime during the night he was awakened 
by the tramping of horses, a sound that ran 
along the ground and diminished in the distance. 

Cheyenne was sitting up. He touched Bart¬ 
ley. “Five or six of ’em,” whispered Cheyenne. 


AT THE WATER-HOLE 


83 


“Our horses?” 

“Too many. Mebby some strays.” 

“Or cowboys,” suggested Bartley. 

“Night-ridin’ ain’t so popular out here.” 

Bartley turned over and fell asleep. It 
seemed but a moment later that he was wide 
awake and Cheyenne was standing over him. 
It was daylight. 

“They got our bosses,” said Cheyenne. 

“Who?” 

“I dunno.” 

“What? Our horses? Great Scott, how far 
is it to Senator Brown’s ranch?” 

“About twenty-five miles, by road. I know 
a short cut. 

Bartley jumped up and pulled on his boots. 
From the far hills came the faint yelp of a 
coyote, shrill and derisive. 

“The joke is on us,” said Bartley. 

“This here ain’t no joke,” stated Cheyenne. 


CHAPTER VIII 

HIGH HEELS AND MOCCASINS 

Bartley suggested that, perhaps, the horses 
had strayed. 

Cheyenne shook his head. ‘"My bosses ain’t 
leavin’ good feed, or leavin’ me. They know 
this here country.” 

“Perhaps Dobe left for home and the rest 
followed him,” said Bartley. 

“Nope. Our bosses was roped and led south.” 

Bartley stared at Cheyenne, whose usually 
placid countenance expressed indecision and 
worry. Cheyenne seemed positive about the 
missing horses. Then Bartley saw an expres¬ 
sion in Cheyenne’s eyes that indicated more 
sternness of spirit than he had given Cheyenne 
credit for. 

“Roped and led south,” reiterated Cheyenne. 

“How do you know it?” 

“I been scoutin’ around. The bunch that 
rode by last night was leadin’ bosses. I could 
tell by the way the bosses was travelin’. They 
was goin’ steady. If they’d been drivin’ our 
bosses ahead, they would ’a’ gone faster, tryin’ 


HIGH HEELS AND MOCCASINS 


85 


to keep ’em from turnin’ back. I don’t see 
nothin’ around camp to show who’s been here.” 

“I’ll make a fire,” said Bartley. 

“You got the right idea. We can eat. Then 
I aim to look around.” 

Cheyenne was over in the bushes rolling his 
bed when Bartley called to him, and he found 
Bartley pointing at a pair of dice on a flat rock 
beside the fire. 

Cheyenne stooped and picked up the dice. 
“Was you rattlin’ the bones to see if you could 
beat yourself?” 

“I found them here. Are they yours?” 

“Nope. And they weren’t here last evenin’.” 

Cheyenne turned and strode out to the road 
while Bartley made breakfast. Cheyenne was 
gone a long time, examining the tracks of horses. 
When he returned he squatted down and ate. 

Presently he rose. “First off, I thought they 
might ’a’ been some stray Apaches or Cholas. 
But they don’t pack dice. And the bunch that 
rode by last night was ridin’ shod bosses.” 

Bartley turned slowly toward his companion. 
“Panhandle?” he queried. 

“And these here dice? Looks like it. It’s 
like him to leave them dice for us to play with 
while he trails south with our stock. I reckon 


86 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


it was that Dobe boss he was after. But he 
must ’a’ knowed who was campin’ around here. 
You see, when Wishful kind of hinted to Pan¬ 
handle to leave town. Panhandle figured that 
meant to stay out of Antelope quite a spell. 
First off he steals some bosses. Next thing, he’ll 
sell ’em or trade ’em, down south of here. He’ll 
travel nights, mostly.” 

“I can’t see why he should especially pick us 
out as his victims,” said Bartley. 

“I don’t say he did. But it would make no 
difference to him. He’d steal any man’s stock. 
Only, I figure some of his friends must ’a’ told 
him about you—that seen you ridin’ down this 
way. He would know our camp would be some¬ 
where near this water-hole. What kind of 
matches you got with you?” 

‘‘Why—this kind.” And Bartley produced a 
few blue-top matches. 

“This here is a old-timer sulphur match, cut 
square. It was right here, by the rock. Some¬ 
body lit a match and laid them dice there—sixes 
up. No reg’lar hoss-thief would take that much 
trouble to advertise himself. Panhandle done 
it—^and he wanted me to know he done it.” 

“You’ve had trouble with him before, haven’t 
you?” 


HIGH HEELS AND MOCCASINS 


87 


“Yes—^and no man can say I ever trailed him. 
But I never stepped out of his way.” 

“Then that crap game in Antelope meant 
more than an ordinary crap game?” said 
Bartley. 

“He had his chance,” stated Cheyenne. 

“Well, we’re in a fix,” asserted Bartley. 

“Yes; we’re afoot. But we’ll make it. And 
right here I’m tellin’ you that I aim to shoot a 
game of craps with Panhandle, usin’ these here 
dice, that’ll be fast and won’t last long.” 

“How about the law?” 

“The law is all right, in spots. But they’s a 
whole lot of country between them spots.” 

Cheyenne cached the bed-roll, saddles, and 
cooking-outfit back in the brush, taking only a 
canteen and a little food. He proffered a pair of 
moccasins, parfleche-soled and comfortable, to 
Bartley. 

“You wear these. Them new ridin’-boots’ll 
sure kill you dead, walkin’. You can pack ’em 
along with you.” 

“How about your feet?” 

“Say, you wouldn’t call me a tenderfoot, 
would you?” 

“Not exactly.” 

“Then slip on them moccasins. But first I 


88 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


aim to make a circle and see just where they 
caught up our stock.*’ 

Bartley drew on the moccasins and, tying 
his boots together, rolled them in his blanket. 
Meanwhile, Cheyenne circled the camp far out, 
examining the scattered tracks of horses. When 
he returned the morning sun was beginning to 
make itself felt. 

‘T’ll toss up to see wno wears the moccasins,” 
said Bartley. “I’m more used to hiking than 
you are.” 

‘‘Spin her!” 

As Bartley tossed the coin, Cheyenne called. 
The half-dollar dropped and stuck edge-up in 
the sand. 

“You wear ’em the first fifteen miles and then 
we’ll swap,” said Cheyenne. 

Bartley filled the canteen and scraped dirt 
over the fire. Cheyenne took a last look around, 
and turned toward the south. 

“You didn’t say nothin’ about headin’ back 
to Antelope,” said Cheyenne. 

“Why, no. I started out to visit Senator 
Brown’s ranch.” 

Cheyenne laughed. “Well, you’re out to see 
the country, anyhow. We’ll see lots, to-day.” 
^ Once more upon the road Cheyenne’s manner 


HIGH HEELS AND MOCCASINS 


89 


changed. He seemed to ignore the fact that he 
was afoot, in country where there was little 
prospect of getting a lift from a passing rancher 
or freighter. And he said nothing about his 
horses, Filaree and Joshua, although Bartley 
knew that their loss must have hit him hard. 

A mile down the road, and Cheyenne was 
singing his trail song, bow-legging ahead as 
though he were entirely alone and indifferent to 
the journey: 

Seems like I don’t git anywhere: 

Git along, cay use, git along! 

But I’m leavin’ here and I’m goin’ there. 

Git along, cayuse, git along— 

He stopped suddenly, pulled his faded black 
Stetson over one eye, and then stepped out 
again, singing on: 

They ain’t no water and they ain’t no shade: 

They ain’t no beer or lemonade. 

But I reckon most like we’ll make the grade 
Git along, cayuse, git along. 

‘‘That’s the stuff!” laughed Bartley, “A 
stanza or two of that every few miles, and we’ll 
make the grade all right. That last was im¬ 
provised, wasn’t it.^^” 

“Nope. Just naturalized. I make ’em up 


90 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


when I’m ridin’ along, to kind of fit into the 
scenery. Impervisin’ gets my wind.” 

“Well, if you are singing when we finish, you’re 
a wonder,” stated Bartley. 

“Oh, I’m a wonder, all right! And mebby 
I don’t feel like a plumb fool, footin’ it into 
Steve’s ranch with no bosses and no bed-roll and 
no reputation. And I sure lose mine this trip. 
Why, folks all over the country will josh me to 
death when they hear Panhandle Sears set me 
afoot on the big mesa. I reckon I’ll have to 
kind of change my route till somethin’ happens 
to make folks forget this here bobble. 

Another five miles of hot and monotonous 
plodding, and Cheyenne stopped and sat down. 
He pulled off his boots. 

Bartley offered the moccasins, but Cheyenne 
waved the affer aside. 

“Just coolin’ my feet,” he explained. “It 
ain’t so much the kind of boots, because these 
fit. It’s scaldin’ your feet that throws you.” 

They smoked and drank from the canteen. 
Five minutes’ rest, and they were on the road 
again. The big mesa reached on and on toward 
the south, seemingly limitless, without sign of 
fence or civilization save for the narrow road 
that swung over each slight, rounded rise and 


HIGH HEELS AND MOCCASINS 


91 


ran away into the distance, narrowing to a gray 
line that disappeared in space. 

Occasionally singing, Cheyenne strode along, 
Bartley striding beside him. 

“You got a stride like a unbroke yearlin’,’’ said 
Cheyenne, as Bartley unconsciously drew ahead. 

Bartley stopped and turned into step as 
Cheyenne caught up. He held himself to a 
slower pace, realizing that, while his companion 
could have outridden him by days and miles, the 
other was not used to walking. 

As they topped a low rise a coyote sprang up 
and floated away. Bartley flinched as Cheyenne 
whipped up his gun and fired. The coyote jack¬ 
knifed and lay still. Cheyenne punched the 
empty shell from his gun, slipped in a cartridge, 
and strode on. 

“Pretty fast work,’’ remarked Bartley. 

“Huh! I just thro wed down on him to see if 
I was gettin’ slow.” 

“It seems to me that if I could shoot like that, 
I wouldn’t let any man back me down,” said 
Bartley. 

“Mebby so. But you’re wrong, old-timer. 
Bein’ fast with a gun is just like advertisin’ for 
the coroner. Me, I’m plumb peaceful.” 

A few miles farther along they nooned in 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


m 

the shade of a pinon. When they started down 
the road again, Bartley noticed that Cheyenne 
limped slightly. But Cheyenne still refused to 
put on the moccasins. Bartley argued that his 
own feet were getting tender. He was unaccus¬ 
tomed to moccasins. Cheyenne turned this argu¬ 
ment aside by singing a stanza of his trail song. 

Also, incidentally, Cheyenne had been keep¬ 
ing his eye on the horse-tracks; and just before 
they left the main road taking a short cut, he 
pointed to them. ‘‘There’s Filaree’s tracks, and 
there’s Joshua’s. Your hoss has been travelin’ 
over here, on the edge. Them hoss-thieves 
figure to hit into the White Hills and cut down 
through the Apache forest, most like.” 

“Will they sell the horses?” 

“Yes. Or trade ’em for whiskey. Panhandle’s 
got friends up in them hills.” 

“How far is it to the ranch?” queried Bartley. 

“We done reached her. We’re on Steve’s 
ranch, right now. It’s about five miles from 
that first fence over there to his house, by trail. 
It’s fifteen by road.” 

“Then here is where you take the moccasins.” 

“Nope. My feet are so swelled you couldn’t 
start my boots with a fence stretcher. They’s no 
ose both of us gettin’ cripped up.” 


HIGH HEELS AND MOCCASINS 9S 

Bartley’s own feet ached from the constant 
bruising of pebbles. 

Presently Cheyenne dropped back and asked 
Bartley to set the pace. 

“I’ll just tie to your shadow,” said Cheyenne. 
“Keeps me interested. When I’m drillin’ 
along ahead I can’t think of nothin’ but my 
feet.” 

Because there was now no road and scarcely 
a trail, Bartley began to choose his footing, 
dodging the rougher places. The muscles of his 
calves ached under the unaccustomed strain of 
walking without heels. Cheyenne dogged along 
behind, suffering keenly from blistered feet, 
but centering his attention on Bartley’s bobbing 
shadow. They had made about two miles 
across country when the faint trail ran round 
a butte and dipped into a shallow arroyo. 

The arroyo deepened to a gulch, narrow and 
rocky. Up the gulch a few hundred yards they 
came suddenly upon a bunch of Hereford cattle 
headed by a magnificent bull. The trail ran 
in the bottom of the gulch. On either side the 
walls were steep and rocky. Angling junipers 
stuck out from the walls in occasional dots of 
green. 

“That ole white-face sure looks hostile,” 


94 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


Cheyenne remarked. ‘‘Git along, you ole 
Mormon; curl your tail and drift.” 

Cheyenne heaved a stone which took the 
bull fairly between the eyes. The bull shook 
his head and snapped his tail, but did not move. 
The cattle behind the bull stared blandly at 
the invaders of their domain. The bull, being 
an aristocrat, gave warning of his intent to 
charge by shaking his head and bellowing. Then 
he charged. 

Cheyenne stooped for another stone, but 
Bartley had no intention of playing ping-pong 
with a roaring red avalanche. Bartley made for 
the side of the gulch and, catching hold of the 
bole of a juniper, drew himself up. Cheyenne 
stood to his guns, shied a third stone, scored a 
bull’s-eye, and then decided to evacuate in favor 
of the enemy. His feet were sore, but he man¬ 
aged to keep a good three jumps ahead of the 
bull, up the precipitous bank of the gulch. 
There was no time to swing into the tree where 
Bartley had taken refuge, so Cheyenne backed 
into a shallow depression beneath the roots of 
the juniper. 

The bull shook his head and butted at Chey¬ 
enne. Cheyenne slapped the bull’s nose with his 
hat. The bull backed part-way down the grade, 


HIGH HEELS AND MOCCASINS 


95 


snapped his tail, and bellowed. Up the grade 
he charged again. He could not quite reach 
Cheyenne, who slapped at the bull with his hat 
and spake eloquently. 

Bartley, clinging to his precarious perch, gazed 
down upon the scene, wondering if he had not 
better take a shot at the bull. ‘‘Shall I let him 
have it.^” he queried. 

“Have what?” came the muffled voice of 
Cheyenne. “He’s ’most got what he’s after, 
right now.” 

“Shall I shoot him?” 

“Hell, no! No use beefin’ twelve hundred 
dollars’ worth of meat. We don’t need that 
much.” 

“Look out! He’s coming again!” called 
Bartley. 

Cheyenne had suddenly poked his head out of 
the shallow cave. The bull charged, backed 
down, and amused himself by tossing dirt over 
his shoulders and grumbling like distant thunder. 

“Perhaps if you stay in that cave and don’t 
show yourself, he’ll leave,” suggested Bartley. 

“Stay nothin’!” answered Cheyenne. “There’s 
a rattler in this here cave. I can hear him 
singin’. I’m cornin’ out, right now!” 

Bartley, leaned forward and glanced down. 


96 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


The branch on which he was straddled snapped. 

^‘Look out below!” he shouted as he felt him¬ 
self going. 

Bartley’s surprising evolution was too much 
for his majesty the bull, who whirled and gal¬ 
loped clumsily down the slope. Bartley rolled 
to the bottom, still holding to a broken branch 
of the tree. Cheyenne was also at the bottom 
of the gulch. The bull was trotting heavily 
toward his herd. 

"Ts there anything hooked to the back of my 
jeans queried Cheyenne. 

‘‘No. They’re torn; that’s all.” 

“Huh! I thought mebby that ole snake had 
hooked on to my jeans. He sounded right mad, 
singin’ lively, back in there. My laigs feel kind 
of limp, right now.” 

Cheyenne felt of his torn overalls, shook his 
head, and then a slow smile illumined his face. 
“How do you like this here country, anyhow?” 

“Great!” said Bartley. 


CHAPTER IX 

AT THE BOX-S 

When they emerged from the western end of the 
gulch, they paused to rest. Not over a half- 
mile south stood the ranch-house, just back of a 
row of giant cottonwoods. 

Cheyenne pointed out the stables, corrals, and 
bunk-house. ‘‘A mighty neat little outfit,” he 
remarked, as they started on again. 

“Little.^^” 

‘‘Senator Steve’s only got about sixty thou¬ 
sand acres under fence.” 

“Then I’d like to see a big ranch,” laughed 
Bartley. 

“You can’t. They ain’t nothin’ to see more’n 
you see right now. Why, I know a outfit down 
in Texas that would call this here ranch their 
north pasture—^and they got three more about 
the same size, besides the regular range. But 
standin’ in any one place you can’t see any more 
than you do right now. Steve just keeps up 
this here ranch so he can have elbow-room. 
Yonder comes one of his boys. Reckon he 


seen us. 


98 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


A rider had just reined his horse round and 
was loping toward them. 

“Pie seen we was afoot/’ said Cheyenne. 

“Mighty decent of him—” began Bartley, 
but Cheyenne waved the suggestion aside. 
“Decent nothin’! A man afoot looks as queer 
to a waddie as we did to that ole bull.” 

The puncher loped up, recognized Cheyenne, 
nodded to Bartley, and seemed to hesitate. 
Cheyenne made no explanation of their plight, 
so the puncher simply turned back and loped 
toward the ranch-house. 

4 “Just steppin’ over to tell Steve we’re here,” 
said Cheyenne, as Bartley’s face expressed 
astonishment. 

They plodded on, came to a gate, limped 
down a long lane, came to another gate, and 
there Senator Steve met them. 

“I’d ’a’ sent a man with a buckboard if I had 
known you planned to walk over from Ante¬ 
lope,” he asserted, and his eyes twinkled. 

Cheyenne frowned prodigiously. “Steve,” he 
said slowly, “you can lovin’ly and trustfully go 
plumb to hell!” 

Cheyenne turned and limped slowly toward 
the bunk-house. 

Mrs. Brown welcomed Bartley as the Senator 


AT THE BOX-S 


99 


ushered him into the living-room. The Senator 
half-filled a tumbler from a cold, dark bottle and 
handed it to Bartley. 

‘‘ ‘Green River,’ ” he said. 

“Mrs. Brown,” said Bartley as he bowed. 

Then the Senator escorted Bartley to the bath¬ 
room. The tub was already filled with steaming 
water. A row of snow-white towels hung on the 
rack. The Senator waved his hand and, step¬ 
ping out, closed the door. 

A few minutes later he knocked at the bath¬ 
room door. “There’s a spare razor in the cab¬ 
inet, and all the fixings. And when you’re 
ready there’s a pair of clean socks on the door¬ 
knob.” 

Bartley heard the Senator’s heavy, deliberate 
step as he passed down the hallway. 

“A little ‘Green River,’ a hot bath, and clean 
socks,” murmured Bartley. “Things might be 
worse.” 

His tired muscles relaxed under the beneficent 
warmth of the bath. He shaved, dressed, and 
stepped out into the hall. He sniffed. “Chick¬ 
en!” he murmured soulfully. 

Mrs. Senator Brown was supervising the 
cooking of a dinner that Bartley never forgot. 
Boiled chicken, dumplings, rich gravy, mashed 


100 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


potatoes, creamed carrots, sliced tomatoes—to 
begin with. And then the pie! Bartley fur¬ 
nished the appetite. 

But that was not until after the Senator had 
returned from the bunk-house. He had seen to 
it that Cheyenne had had a bucket of hot water, 
soap, and towels and grease for his sore feet. 
In direct and effectual kindliness, without ob¬ 
viously expressed sympathy, the Westerner is 
peculiarly supreme. 

Back in the living-room Bartley made him¬ 
self comfortable, admiring the generous propor¬ 
tions of the house, the choice Indian blankets, 
the wide fireplace, and the general solidity of 
everything, which reflected the personality of 
his hosts. 

Presently the Senator came in. “Cheyenne 
tells me that somebody set you afoot, down at 
the water-hole.’’ 

“Did he also tell you about your bull?” 

“No! Is that how he came to tear his 
jeans?” 

Bartley nodded. And he told the Senator of 
their recent experience in the gulch. 

The Senator chuckled. “Don’t say a word 
to Mrs. Brown about it. I’ll have Cheyenne 
in, after dinner, and sweat it out of him. 


AT THE BOX-S 


101 


You see, Cheyenne won’t eat with us. He 
always eats with the boys. No use asking 
him to eat in here. And, say, Bartley, we’ve 
got a little surprise for you. One of my 
boys caught up your horse, old Dobe. Dobe 
was dragging a rope. Looks like he broke 
away from some one. I had him turned 
into the corral. Dobe was raised on this 
range.” 

“Broke loose and came back!” exclaimed 
Bartley. “That’s good news. Senator. I like 
that horse.” 

“But Cheyenne is out of luck,” said the 
Senator. “He thought more of those horses, 
Filaree and Joshua, than he did of anything on 
earth. I’ll send one of the boys back to the 
water-hole to-morrow, for your saddles and out¬ 
fit. But now you’re here, how do you like the 
country?” 

“Almost as much as I like some of the people 
living in it,” stated Bartley. 

“Not including Panhandle Sears, eh?” 

“I’m pretty well fed up on walking,” and 
Bartley smiled. 

“Sears is a worthless hombre,” stated the 
Senator. “He’s one of a gang that steal stock, 
and generally live by their wits and never seem 


102 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


to get caught. But he made a big mistake when 
he lifted Cheyenne’s horses. Cheyenne already 
has a grievance against Sears. Some day 
Cheyenne will open up—and that will be the last 
of Mr. Sears.” 

‘T had an idea there was something like that 
in the wind,” said Bartley. ‘‘Cheyenne hasn’t 
said much about Sears, but I was present at that 
crap game. 

The Senator chuckled. “I heard about it. 
Heard you offered to take on Sears if he would 
put his gun on the table.” 

Bartley flushed. “I must have been excited.” 

The Senator leaned forward in his big, easy- 
chair. “Cheyenne wants me to let him take a 
couple of horses to trail Panhandle. And, judg¬ 
ing from what Cheyenne said, he thinks you are 
going along with him. There’s lots of country 
right round here to see, without taking any un¬ 
necessary risks.” 

“I understand,” said Bartley, 

“And this is your headquarters, as long as you 
want to stay,” continued the Senator. 

“Thank you. It’s a big temptation to stay. 
Senator.” 

“How?” 

“Well, it was rather understood, without any- 


AT THE BOX-S 


103 


thing being said, that I would help Cheyenne 
find his horses and mine. Dobe came back; 
but that hardly excuses me from going with 
Cheyenne.” 

“But your horse is here; and you seem to be 
in pretty fair health, right now.” 

“I appreciate the hint. Senator.” 

“But you don’t agree with me a whole 
lot.” 

“Well, not quite. Chance rather chucked us 
together, Cheyenne and me, and I think I’ll 
travel with him for a while. I like to hear him 
sing.” 

“He likes to hear him sing!” scoffed the 
Senator, frowning. He sat back in his chair, 
blew smoke-rings, puffed out his cheeks, and 
presently rose. “Bartley, I see that you’re set 
on chousin’ around the country with that 
warbling waddie—^just to hear him sing, as you 
say. I say you’re a dam’ fool. 

“But you’re the kind of a dam’ fool I want to 
shake hands with. You aren’t excited and 
you don’t play to the gallery; so if there’s any¬ 
thing you want on this ranch, from a posse to a 
pack-outfit, it’s yours. And if either of you get 
Sears, I’ll sure chip in my share to buy his head¬ 
stone.” 


104 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


‘T wouldn’t have it inscribed until we get 
back,” laughed Bartley. 

‘‘No; I don’t think I will. Trailin’ horse- 
thieves on their own stamping ground ain’t what 
an insurance company would call a good risk.” 


CHAPTER X 

TO TRY HIM OUT 

Two days later Cheyenne was able to get his 
feet into his boots, but even then he walked as 
though he did not care to let his left foot know 
what his right foot was doing. Lon Felly, just 
in from a ride out to the line shack, remarked to 
the boys in the bunk-house that Cheyenne 
walked as though his brains were in his feet and 
he didn’t want to get stone bruises stepping on 
them. 

Cheyenne made no immediate retort, but later 
he delivered himself of a new stanza of his trail 
song, wherein the first line ended with ‘Telly” 
followed by the rhymed assertion that the gen¬ 
tleman who bore that peculiar name had slivers 
in his anatomy due to a fondness for leaning 
against the bar of the Blue Front Saloon. 

The boys were mightily pleased with the 
stanza, and they also improvised until, according 
to their versions. Long Lon bore a marked 
resemblance to a porcupine. Lon, being a real 
person, felt that Cheyenne’s retaliation was 


106 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


just. Moreover, Lon, who never did anything 
hastily, let it be known casually that he had seen 
three riders west of the line shack some two days 
past, and that the riders were leading two horses, 
a buckskin and a gray. They were too far away 
to be distinguished absolutely, but he could tell 
the color of the horses. 

‘‘Panhandle?’’ queried a puncher. 

“And two riders with him,” said Long Lon. 

“Goin’ to trail him, Cheyenne?” came pres¬ 
ently. 

“That’s me.” 

“Then let’s pass the hat,” suggested the first 
speaker. 

“Wait!” said Cheyenne, drawing a pair of dice 
from his pocket. “Somehow, and sometime, I 
aim to shoot Panhandle a little game. Then 
you guys can pass the hat for the loser. Pan¬ 
handle left them dice on the fiat rock, by the 
water-hole. My pardner, Bartley, found them.” 

“Kind of sign talk that Pan pulled one on 
you,” said Lon Pelly. 

“He sure left his brains behind him when he 
left them dice,” asserted Cheyenne. “I sus- 
picioned that it was him^—-but the dice told me, 
plain.” 

“So you figure to walk up to Pan and invite 


TO TRY HIM OUT 


107 


him to shoot a little game, when you meet up 
with him?” queried a puncher. 

‘‘That’s me.” 

“The tenderfoot”—^he referred to Bartley— 
“is he goin’ along with you?” 

“He ain’t so tender as you might think,” 
said Cheyenne. “He’s green, but not so dam’ 
tender.” 

“Well, it’s right sad. He looks like a pretty 
decent hombre.” 

“What’s sad?” queried Cheyenne belliger¬ 
ently. 

“Why, gettin’ that tenderfoot all shot up, 
trailin’ a couple of twenty-dollar cay uses. They 
ain’t worth it.” 

“They ain’t, eh?” 

“Course, they make a right good audience, 
when you’re singin’. They do all the listenin’,” 
said another puncher. 

“Huh! They ain’t one of you got a hoss that 
can listen to you, without blushin’. You fellas 
think you’re a hard-ridin’—•” 

“Ridin’ beats walkin’,” suggested Long 
Lon. 

“Keep a-joshin’. I like it. Shows how much 
you don’t know. I—^hello, Mr. Bartley I Shake 
hands with Lon Felly—but I guess you met 


108 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


him, over to Antelope. You needn’t to mind 
the rest of these guys. They’re harmless.” 

‘T don’t want to interrupt—>” began Bartley. 

“Set right in!” they invited in chorus. “We’re 
just listenin’ to Cheyenne preachin’ his own 
funeral sermon.” 

Bartley seated himself in the doorway of 
the bunk-house. The joshing ceased. Chey¬ 
enne, who could never keep his hands still, toyed 
with the dice. Presently one of the boys sug¬ 
gested that Cheyenne show them some fancy 
work with a six-gun—-“just to keep your wrist 
limber,” he concluded. 

Cheyenne shook his head. But, when Bartley 
intimated that he would like to see Cheyenne 
shoot, Cheyenne rose. 

“All right. I’ll shoot any fella here for ten 
bucks—^him to name the target.” 

“No, you don’t,” said a puncher. “We ain’t 
givin’ our dough away, just to git rid of it.” 

“And right recent they was talkin’ big,” said 
Cheyenne. “I’ll shoot the spot of a playin’-card, 
if you’ll hold it,” he asserted, indicating Bartley. 

The boys glanced at Bartley and then low¬ 
ered their eyes, wondering what the Easterner 
would do. Bartley felt that this was a test of 
his nerve, and, while he didn’t like the idea of 


TO TRY HIM OUT 


109 


engaging in a William Tell performance he 
realized that Cheyenne must have had a reason 
for choosing him, out of the men present, and 
that Cheyenne knew his business. 

‘‘Cheyenne wants to git out of shootin’,’’ 
suggested a puncher. 

That settled it with Bartley. “He won’t 
disappoint you,” he stated quietly. “Give me 
the card.” 

One of the boys got up and fetched an old 
deck of cards. Bartley chose the ace of spades. 
Back of the corrals, with nothing but mesa in 
sight, he took up his position, while Cheyenne 
stepped off fifteen paces. Bartley’s hand 
trembled a little. Cheyenne noticed it and 
turned to the group, saying something that 
made them laugh. Bartley’s fingers tensed. 
He forgot his nervousness. Cheyenne 
whirled and shot, apparently without aim. 
Bartley drew a deep breath, and glanced at 
the card. The black pip was cut clean from 
the center, 

“That’s easy,” asserted Cheyenne. Then he 
took a silver dollar from his pocket, laid it in 
the palm of his right hand, hung the gun, by 
its trigger guard on his right forefinger, lowered 
his hand and tossed the coin up. As the coin 


110 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


went up the gun whirled over. Then came 
the whiz of the coin as it cut through space. 

‘‘About seventy-five shots like that and I’m 
broke,” laughed Cheyenne. “Anybody’s hat 
need ventilatin’.^” 

“Not this child’s,” asserted Lon Pelly. “I 
sailed my hat for him onct. It was a twenty- 
dollar J. B., when I sailed it. When it hit it sure 
wouldn’t hold water. Six holes in her—-and 
three shots.” 

“Six?” exclaimed Bartley. 

“The three shots went clean through both 
sides,” said Lon. 

Cheyenne reloaded his gun and dropped it into 
the holster. 

Later, Bartley had a talk with Cheyenne 
about the proposed trailing of the stolen horses. 
Panhandle’s name was mentioned. And the 
name of another man—Sneed. Cheyenne 
seemed to know just where he would look, and 
whom he might expect to meet. 

Bartley and Cheyenne were in the living- 
room that evening talking with the Senator 
and his wife. Out in the bunk-house those 
of the boys who had not left for the line shack 
were discussing horse-thieves in general and 
Panhandle and Sneed in particular. Bill 


TO TRY HIM OUT 


111 


Smalley, a saturnine member of the outfit, who 
seldom said anything, and who was a good hand 
but a surly one, made a remark. 

“That there Cheyenne is the fastest gun 
artist—^and the biggest coward that ever come 
out of Wyoming. Ain’t that right, Lon?” 

“I never worked in Wyoming,” said Long Lon. 


CHAPTER XI 


PONY TRACKS 

Mrs. Senator Brown did not at all approve 
of Bartley’s determination to accompany Chey¬ 
enne in search of the stolen horses. Late that 
night, long after Cheyenne had ceased to sing 
for the boys in the bunk-house, and while 
Bartley was peacefully slumbering in a com¬ 
fortable bed, Mrs. Brown took the Senator to 
task for not having discouraged the young 
Easterner from attempting such a wild-goose 
chase. The Senator, whose diameter made the 
task of removing *his boots rather difficult, 
puffed, and tugged at a tight riding-boot, but 
said nothing. 

“Steve!” 

“Yes’m. I ’most got it off. Wild-goose 
chase? Madam, the wild goose is a child that 
shuns this element. You mean wild-horse 
chase.” 

“That sort of talk may amuse your con¬ 
stituents, but you are talking to me.” 

Off came the stubborn boot. The Senator 
puffed, and tugged at the other boot. 


PONY TRACKS 


113 


‘‘No, ma’am. You’re talking to me. There! 
Now go ahead and I’ll listen.” 

“Why didn’t you discourage Mr. Bartley’s 
idea of making such a journey?’ 

“I did, Nelly. I told him he was a dam’ 
fool.” 

Mrs. Senator Brown, who knew her husband’s 
capabilities in dodging issues when he was cor¬ 
nered,—^both at home and abroad,^—^peered at 
him over her glasses. “What else did you tell 
him?” 

“Well, your honor,” chuckled the Senator, “I 
also told him he was the kind of dam’ fool I 
liked to shake hands with.” 

“I knew it! And what else ?” 

“I challenge the right of the attorney for 
the plaintifif to introduce any evidence that 
may—” 

“The attorney for the defense may proceed,” 
said Mrs. Brown, smiling. 

“Why, shucks, Nelly! When you smile like 
that—^why, I told Bartley he could have any¬ 
thing on this ranch that would help him get a 
rope on Sears.” 

“I knew it!” 

“Then why did you ask me?” 

Mrs. Brown ignored the question. “Very 


114 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


well, Stephen. Mr. Bartley gave me his sister’s 
address, in case anything happened. She is 
his only living relative and I’m going to write 
to her at once and tell her what her brother is 
up to.” 

“And most like she’ll head right for this 
ranch.” 

“Well, suppose she does? If she is anything 
like her brother she will be welcome.” 

“You bet! Just leave that to me!” 

“It’s a shame!” asserted Mrs. Brown. 

“It is! With her good looks and inexperi¬ 
ence she’ll sure need somebody to look after her.” 

“How do you know she is good-looking?” 

“I don’t. I was just hoping.” 

“I shall write, just the same.” 

“I reckon you will. I’m going to bed.” 

Just as the sun rounded above the mesa 
next morning, Bartley stepped out to the ver¬ 
anda. He was surprised to find the Senator up 
and about, inspecting the details of Cheyenne’s 
outfit, for Cheyenne had the horses saddled and 
packed. Bartley was still more surprised to 
find that Mrs. Brown had breakfast ready. 
Evidently the good Senator and his wife had a 
decided interest in the welfare of the expedition. 

After breakfast the Senator’s wife came out to 


PONY TRACKS 


115 


the bunk-house with a mysterious parcel which 
she gave to Bartley. He sniffed at it. 

‘‘Cold chicken sandwiches!” he said, smiling 
broadly. 

“And some doughnuts. It will save you 
boys fussing with a lunch.” 

Long Lon Pelly was also up and ready to 
start. The air was still cool and the horses 
were a bit snuffy. Lon mounted and rode 
toward the west gate where he waited for 
Cheyenne and Bartley. 

“Now don’t forget where you live,” said the 
Senator as Bartley mounted. 

With a cheery farewell to their hosts, Chey¬ 
enne and Bartley rode away. The first warmth 
of the sun touched them as they headed into 
the western spaces. Long Lon closed the big 
gate, stepped up on his horse, and jogged along 
beside them. 

Bartley felt as though he had suddenly 
left the world of reality and was riding in a sort 
of morning dream. He could feel the pleasant 
warmth of the sun on his back. He sniffed the 
thin dust cast up by the horses. On either side 
of him the big mesa spread to the sky-line. 
Cattle were scattered in the brush, some of them 
lying down, some of them grazing indolently. 


116 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


Presently Cheyenne began to sing, and his 
singing seemed to fit into the mood of the morn¬ 
ing. He ceased, and nothing but the faint 
jingle of rein chains and the steady plod of hoofs 
disturbed the vast silence. A flicker of smoke 
drifted back as Cheyenne lighted a cigarette. 
Long Lon drilled on, wrapped in his reflections. 
Their moving shadows shortened. Occasionally 
a staring-eyed cow strayed directly in their way 
and stood until Long Lon struck his chaps with 
his quirt, when the cow, swinging its head, 
would whirl and bounce off to one side, stiff- 
legged and ridiculous. 

Bartley unbuttoned his shirt-collar and pushed 
back his hat. Far across the mesa a dust devil 
spun up and writhed away toward the distant 
hills. As the horses slowed to cross a sandy 
draw, Bartley turned and glanced back. The 
ranch buildings—-a dot of white in a clump of 
green^—^shimmered vaguely in the morning sun¬ 
light. 

Thus far, Bartley felt that he had been leaving 
the ranch and the cheerful companionship of the 
Senator and his wife. But as Lon Pelly reined 
up—-it was something like two hours since they 
had started—-and pointed to a cross-trail leading 
south, Bartley’s mental attitude changed in- 


PONY TRACKS 


117 


stantly. Hitherto he had been leaving a pleasant 
habitation. Now he was going somewhere. He 
felt the distinction keenly. Cheyenne’s verse 
came back to him. 

Seems like I don’t git anywhere, 

Git along, cayuse, git along; 

But we’re leavin’ here and we’re goin’ there. 

Git along, cayuse, git along— 

‘‘Just drop a line when you get there,” said 
Long Lon as he reined round and set off toward 
the far western sky-line. That was his casual 
farewell. 

Cheyenne now turned directly toward the 
south and a range of hills that marked the 
boundary of the mesa level. Occasionally he got 
off his horse and stooped to examine tracks. Once 
he made a wide circle, leaving Bartley to haze the 
pack-horse along. Slowly they drew nearer to 
the hills. During the remainder of that fore¬ 
noon, Cheyenne said nothing, but rode, slouched 
forward, his hand on the horn, his gaze on the 
ground. 

They nooned in the foothills. The horses 
grazed along the edge of a tiny stream while 
Cheyenne and Bartley ate the cold chicken 
sandwiches. In half an hour they were riding 
again, skirting the foothills, and, it seemed to 


118 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


Bartley, simply meandering about the country, 
for now they were headed west again. 

Presently Cheyenne spoke. ‘T been makin’ a 
plan.” 

‘T didn’t say a word,” laughed Bartley. 

“You didn’t need to. I kind of got what you 
were thinkin’. This here is big country. When 
you’re ridin’ this kind of country with some fella, 
you can read his mind almost as good as a horse 
can. You was thinkin’ I was kind of twisted 
and didn’t know which way to head. Now take 
that there hoss, Joshua. Plenty times I’ve rode 
him up to a fork in the trail, and kep’ sayin’ 
to myself, ‘We’ll take the right-hand fork.’ 
And Joshua always took the fork I was thinkin’ 
about. You try it with Dobe, sometime.” 

“I have read of such things,” said Bartley. 

“Well, I know ’em. What would you say if 
I was to tell you that Joshua knowed once 
they was a fella ridin’ behind me, five miles 
back, and out of sight—^and told me, plain?” 

“I wouldn’t say anything.” 

“There’s where you’re wise. I can talk to 
you about such things. But when I try to talk 
to the boys like that, they just josh, till I git 
mad and quit. They ain’t takin’ me serious.” 

“What is your plan?” queried Bartley. 


PONY TRACKS 


119 


Cheyenne reined up and dismounted. “Step 
down, and take a look,” he suggested. 

Bartley dismounted. Cheyenne pointed out 
horse-tracks on the trail along the edge of the 
hills. 

“Five bosses,” he asserted. “Two of ’em 
is mine. That leaves three that are carryin’ 
weight. But we’re makin’ a mistake for our¬ 
selves, trailin’ Panhandle direct. He figures 
mebby I’d do that. I got to outfigure him. I 
don’t want to git blowed out of my saddle by 
somebody in the brush, just waitin’ for me to 
ride up and git shot. I got the way he’s headed, 
and by to-morrow mornin’ I’ll know for sure. 

“If he’d been goin’ to swing back, to fool me, 
he’d ’a’ done it before he hit the timber, up 
yonder. Once he gits in them hills he’ll 
head straight south, for they ain’t no other 
trail to ride on them ridges. But mebby he 
cut along the foothills, first. I got to make 
sure.” 

Late that afternoon and close to the edge of 
the foothills, Cheyenne lost the tracks. He 
spent over an hour finding them again. Bartley 
could discern nothing definite, even when Chey¬ 
enne pointed to a queer, blurred patch in some 
loose earth. 


120 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


‘‘It looks like the imprint of some coarse 
cloth,” said Bartley. 

“Gunnysack. They pulled the shoes off my 
bosses and sacked their feet.” 

“How about their own horses?” 

“They been ridin’ hard ground, and the tracks 
donT show, plain. Panhandle figured, when I 
seen that only the tracks of three horses showed, 
I’d think he had turned my bosses loose on the 
big mesa. He stops, pulls their shoes, sacks 
their feet, and leads ’em over there. Whoever 
done it was afoot, and steppin’ careful. Hell, I 
could learn that yella-bellied hoss-thief how to 
steal bosses right, if I was in the business.” 

“Looks like a pretty stiff drill up those hills,” 
remarked Bartley. 

“That’s why he turned, right here. ’Tain’t 
just the stealin’ of my bosses that’s interestin’ 
him. He’s takin’ trouble to run a whizzer on 
me—^get me guessin’. Here is where we quit 
trailin’ him. I got my plan workin’ like a hen 
draggin’ fence rails. We ain’t goin’ to trail 
Panhandle. We’re goin’ to ride ’round and 
meet him.” 

“Not a bad idea,” said Bartley. 

“It won’t be—if I see him first.” 


CHAPTER XII 

JIMMY AND THE LUGER GUN 

Two days of riding toward the west, along the 
edge of the hills, and Bartley and Cheyenne 
found themselves approaching the high country. 
The trail ran up a wide valley, on either side of 
which were occasional ranches reaching back 
toward the slopes. In reality they were gradu¬ 
ally climbing the range on an easy grade and 
making good time. 

Their course now paralleled the theoretical 
course of Panhandle and his fellows. Dodg¬ 
ing the rugged land to the south, Cheyenne had 
swung round in a half-circle, hoping to head ofiE 
Panhandle on the desert side of the range. 
Since abandoning the tracks of the stolen horses, 
Cheyenne had resumed his old habit of singing as 
he rode. He seemed to know the name of every 
ranch, and of every person they met. 

Once or twice some acquaintance expressed 
surprise that Cheyenne did not stop and spend 
the night with him. But Cheyenne jokingly 
declined all invitations, explaining to Bartley 


122 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


that in stopping to visit they would necessarily 
waste hours in observing the formalities of 
arrival and departure, although Cheyenne did 
not put it just that way. 

They found water and plenty of feed, made 
their camps early, broke camp early, and rode 
steadily. With no visible incentive to keep 
going, Bartley lost his first keen interest in the 
hunt, and contented himself with listening to 
Cheyenne’s yarns about the country and its folk, 
or occasionally chatting with some wayfarer. 
But never once did Cheyenne hint, to those 
they met, just why he was riding south. 

There were hours at a stretch, when the going 
was level, when Cheyenne did nothing but roll 
his gun, throw down on different objects, toss 
up his gun, and catch it by the handle; and once 
he startled Bartley by making a quick fall from 
the saddle and shooting from the ground. 
Cheyenne explained to Bartley that often, when 
riding alone, he had spent hour after hour 
figuring out the possibilities of gun-play, till it 
became evident to the Easterner that, aside from 
being naturally quick, there was a very good 
reason for Cheyenne’s proficiency with the six- 
gun. He practiced continually. And yet, 
thought Bartley, one of the Box-S punchers had 


JIMMY AND THE LUGER GUN 


123 


said that Cheyenne had never killed anything 
bigger than a coyote, and never would—inti¬ 
mating that he was too good-natured ever to 
take advantage of his own proficiency with a 
gun. 

Bartley wondered just how things would break 
if they did happen to meet Panhandle unexpect¬ 
edly. Panhandle would no doubt dispose of the 
stolen horses as soon as he could. What excuse 
would Cheyenne have to call Panhandle to 
account? And when it came to a show-down, 
would Cheyenne call him to account? 

Bartley was thinking of this when they made 
an early camp, the afternoon of the third day 
out. After the horses were hobbled and the 
packs arranged, Bartley decided to experiment 
a little with his new Luger automatic. Chey¬ 
enne declined to experiment with the gun. 

‘Tt’s a mean gat,’^ he asserted, ‘‘and it’s fast. 
But I’ll bet you a new hat I can empty my old 
smoke-wagon quicker than you can that pocket 
machine gun.” 

For the fun of the thing, Bartley took him up. 
He selected as target a juniper stump, and blazed 
away. 

“I’m leavin’ the decision to you,” said Chey¬ 
enne, as he braced his right arm against his 


124 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


body and fanned the Colt, emptying it before 
Bartley could realize that he had fired three shots 
—^and Cheyenne had fired five. 

“I’ll buy you that hat when we get to town,” 
laughed Bartley. “You beat me, hands down.” 

“Hands down is right, old-timer. Fannin’ 
a gun is show stuff, but it’s wicked, at close 
range.” 

Meanwhile, Bartley had been experimenting 
further with the Luger. When he got through 
he had a hat full of pieces and Cheyenne was 
staring at what seemed to be the wreck of a 
once potent weapon. 

“Why, you done pulled that little lead sprink¬ 
ler all to bits!” exclaimed Cheyenne, “and you 
didn’t have no tools to do it with.” 

“You can take down and assemble this gun 
without tools,” stated Bartley. “All you need 
is your fingers.” 

“But what in Sam Hill did you pull her apart 
for.^^” 

“Just to see if I could put her together again.” 

Cheyenne scratched his head, and stepped over 
to inspect the juniper stump. He stooped, 
whistled, and turned to Bartley. “Man, you 
like to sawed that stub in two. Why didn’t 
you say you could shoot?” 


JIMMY AND THE LUGER GUN 


125 


“I can’t, in your class. But tell me why you 
Westerners always seem to think it strange that 
an Easterner can sit a horse or shoot fairly well.^ 
Is it because you consider that the average 
tourist represents the entire East?” 

“I dunno. But, then. I’ve met up with 
Easterners that weren’t just like you.” 

Bartley was busy, assembling the Luger, and 
Cheyenne was watching him, when they glanced 
up simultaneously. A shadow drifted between 
them. 

Cheyenne hesitated and then stepped forward. 
“I’ll be dinged if it ain’t Jimmy! What you 
doin’ up here in the brush, anyhow?” 

The boy, who rode a well-mannered gray 
pony, kicked one foot out of the stirrup and 
hooked his small leg over the horn. He 
nodded to Cheyenne, but his interest was centered 
on Bartley and the Luger. 

“It’s Jimmy—^my boy,” said Cheyenne. “His 
Aunt Jane lives over yonder, a piece.” 

“Why, hello!” exclaimed Bartley, laying the 
pistol aside. And he stepped up and shook 
hands with the boy, who grinned. 

“How’s the folks?” queried Cheyenne. 

“All right. That there is a Luger gun, ain’t 
it?” 


126 


PARTNERS OF CHAJ^TCE 


“Yes,” said Bartley. “Would you like to 
try it?” 

The boy scrambled down from the saddle. 
“Honest?” 

“Ain’t you goin’ to say hello to your dad?” 
queried Cheyenne. 

“Sure! Only I was lookin’ at that Luger 
gun—” 

Jimmy shook hands perfunctorily with his 
father and turned to Bartley, expectancy in his 
gaze. 

Bartley reloaded the gun and handed it to the 
boy, who straightaway selected the juniper 
stump and blazed away. Bartley watched him, 
a sturdy youngster, brown-fisted, blue-eyed, with 
sandy hair, and dressed in jeans and a rowdy—• 
a miniature cow-puncher, even to his walk. 

“Ever shoot one before?” queried Bartley as 
the boy gave back the pistol. 

“Nope. There’s one like it, over to the store 
in San Andreas. It’s in the window. I never 
got to look at it right close.” 

“Try it again,” said Bartley. 

The boy grinned. “I reckon you’re rich?” 

“Why?” 

“ ’Cause you got a heap of ca’tridges. They 
cost money.” 


JIIVIMY AND THE LUGER GUN 


127 


"‘Never mind. Go ahead and shoot.” 

Jimmy blazed away again and ran to see where 
his bullets had hit the stump. “She’s a pretty 
fair gun,” he said as he handed it back. “But 
I reckon I’ll have to stick to my ole twenty-two 
rifle. She’s gettin’ wore out, but I can hit 
things with her, yet. I git rabbits.” 

“Now, mebby you got time to tell us some¬ 
thing about Aunt Jane and Uncle Frank and 
Dorry,” suggested Cheyenne. 

“Why, they’re all right,” said the boy. 
“Why didn’t you stop by to our place instead of 
bushin’ way up here.^” 

Cheyenne hesitated. “I reckon I’ll be cornin’ 
over,” he said finally. 

Bartley put the Luger away. The boy 
turned to his father. Cheyenne’s face expressed 
happiness, yet Bartley was puzzled. The boy 
was not what could be termed indifferent in any 
sense, yet he had taken his father’s presence 
casually, showing no special interest in their 
meeting. And why had Cheyenne never men¬ 
tioned the boy? Bartley surmised that there 
was some good reason for Cheyenne’s silence on 
that subject^—and because it was obvious that 
there was a good reason, Bartley accepted the 
youngster’s presence in a matter-of-fact manner. 


128 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


as though he had known all along that Chey¬ 
enne had a son. In fact, Cheyenne had not 
stopped to think about it at all. If he had, he 
would have reasoned that Bartley had heard 
about it. Almost every one in Arizona knew 
that Cheyenne had been married and had 
separated from his wife. 

‘‘That would be a pretty good gun to git hoss- 
thieves with,” asserted the boy, still thinking 
of the Luger. 

“What do you know about hoss-thieves?” 
queried Cheyenne. 

“You think I didn’t see you was ridin’ 
different bosses!” said Jimmy. “Mebby you 
think I don’t know where Josh and Filaree are.” 

“You quit joshin’ your dad,” said Cheyenne. 

“I ain’t joshin’ nobody. Ole ‘Clubfoot’ Sneed, 
over by the re’savation’s got Josh and Filaree. 
I seen ’em in his corral, yesterday. I was up 
there, huntin’.” 

“Did you talk to him?” queried Cheyenne. 

“Nope. He just come out of his cabin an’ 
told me to fan it. I wasn’t doin’ nothin’. He 
said it was against the law to be huntin’ up 
there. Mebby he don’t hunt when he feels like it!” 

“Did you tell Uncle Frank?” 

“Yep. Wish I hadn’t. He says for me to 


JIMMY AND THE LUGER GUN 

stay away from the high country—and not to 
ride by Sneed’s place any more.” 

Cheyenne turned to Bartley. “I done made 
one guess right,” he said. 

“You goin’ to kill Sneed?” queried young 
Jim enthusiastically. 

“Nobody’s goin’ to get killed. But I aim to 
git my bosses.” 

Cheyenne turned to Jimmy. “You ride over 
and tell Uncle Frank and Aunt Jane that me 
and Mr. Bartley’ll be over after we eat.” 

“Will you sing that ‘Git Along’ song for me, 
dad?” 

“You bet!” 

“But why don’t you come over and eat to our 
place? You always stop by, every time you 
ride down this way,” said Jimmy. 

“You ride right along, like I told you, or you’ll 
be late for your supper.” 

Little Jim climbed into the saddle, and, turn¬ 
ing to cast a lingering and hopeful glance at 
Bartley,—-a glance which suggested the possi¬ 
bilities of further practice with the Luger gun,—- 
he rode away, a manful figure, despite his size. 

“They’re bringin’ my kid up right,” said 
Cheyenne, as though in explanation of some¬ 
thing about which he did not care to talk." 


CHAPTER XIII 

AT AUNT jane’s 

Aunt Jane Lawrence was popular with the 
young folks of the district, not alone because 
she was a good cook, but because she was a sort 
of foster mother to the entire community. The 
young ladies of the community brought to Aunt 
Jane their old hats and dresses, along with their 
love affairs, petty quarrels, and youthful long¬ 
ings. A clever woman at needlework, she was 
often able to remodel the hats and “turn” 
the dresses so that they would serve a second 
season or maybe a third. 

The love affairs, petty quarrels, and youthful 
longings were not always so easy to remodel, 
even when they needed it: but Aunt Jane 
managed well. She had much patience and 
sympathy. She knew the community, and so 
was often able to help her young friends without 
conflicting with paternal or maternal views. 
Hat-trimming and dressmaking were really only 
incidental to her real purpose in life, which was 
to help young folks realize their ideals, when such 


AT AUNT JANE’S 


131 


ideals did not lead too far from everyday respon¬ 
sibilities. 

Yet, with all her capabilities, her gentle wis¬ 
dom, and her unobtrusive sympathy, she was 
unable to influence her Brother Jim—^known by 
every one as ‘‘Cheyenne”—toward a settled 
habit of life. So it became her fondest desire 
to see that Cheyenne’s boy. Little Jim, should be 
brought up in a home that he would always 
cherish and respect. Aunt Jane’s husband, 
Frank Lawrence, had no patience with Chey¬ 
enne’s aimless meanderings. Frank Lawrence 
was a hard-working, silent nonentity. Aunt 
Jane was the real manager of the ranch, and 
incidentally of Little Jim, and her husband was 
more than content that it should be so. 

Occasionally Aunt Jane gave a dance at her 
home. The young folks of the valley came, had 
a jolly time, and departed, some of them on 
horseback, some in buckboards, and one or two 
of the more well-to-do in that small but aggres¬ 
sive vehicle which has since become a universal 
odor in the nostrils of the world. 

Little Jim detested these functions which 
entailed his best clothes and his best behavior. 
He did not like girls, and looked down with scorn 
upon young men who showed any preference for 


13^ 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


the sex feminine. He made but two exceptions 
to this hard-baked rule: his Aunt Jane, and her 
young friend who lived on the neighboring 
ranch, Dorothy. Little Jim called her Dorry 
because it sounded like a boy’s name. And 
he liked Dorry because she could ride, and shoot 
with a twenty-two rifle almost as well as he 
could. Then, she didn’t have a beau, which was 
the main thing. Once he told her frankly that 
if she ever got a beau, he—^Jimmy—was going 
to quit. 

‘‘Quit what?” asked Dorothy, smiling. 

Little Jim did not know just what he was 
going to quit, but he had imagination. 

“Why, quit takin’ you out huntin’ and camp¬ 
in’ and showin’ you how to tell deer tracks from 
goat’s tracks—and everything.” 

“But I have a beau,” said Dorothy teasingly. 

“Who is he?” demanded Little Jim. 

“Promise you won’t tell?” 

Little Jim hesitated. He did not consider 
it quite the thing to promise a girl any¬ 
thing. But he was curious. “Uh-huh,” he 
said. 

“Jimmy Hastings!” said Dorothy, laughing 
at his expression. 

“That ain’t fair!” blurted Little Jim. “I 


AT AUNT JANE’S 


133 


ain’t nobody’s beau. Shucks! Now you gone 
and spoiled all the fun.” 

‘‘I was only teasing you, Jimmy.” And she 
patted Little Jim’s tousled head. He wriggled 
away and smoothed down his hair. 

“I can beat you shootin’ at tin cans,” he said 
suddenly, to change the subject. 

Shooting at tin cans was much more interest¬ 
ing than talking about beaux. 

“I have to help Aunt Jane get supper,” 
said Dorothy, who had been invited to stay for 
supper that evening. In fact, she was often at 
the Hastings ranch, a more than welcome guest. 

Jimmy scowled. Dorry was always helping 
Aunt Jane make dresses or trim hats, or get 
supper. A few minutes later Little Jim was 
out back of the barn, scowling over the sights of 
his twenty-two at a tomato can a few yards 
away. He fired and punctured the can. 

‘Tlumb center!” he exclaimed. ‘‘You think 
you’re her beau, do you.? Well, that’s what you 
get. And if I see you around this here ranch, 
just even lookin' at her. I’ll plug you again.” 
Jimmy was romancing, with the recently dis¬ 
cussed subject of beaux in mind 

When Little Jim informed the household that 
his father and another man were coming over. 


134 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


that evening, Uncle Frank asked who the 
other man was. Little Jim described Bartley 
and told about the wonderful Luger gun. 

“My dad is huntin’ his bosses,” he said. 
“And I know who’s got ’em!” 

“Was the other man a deputy.^” queried 
Uncle Frank. 

“He didn’t have a badge on him. He kind 
of acted like everything was a joke—-shootin’ 
at that stump, and everything. He wasn’t 
mad at nobody. And he looked kind of like a 
dude.” 

Little Jim meanwhile amused himself by 
trying to rope the family cat with a piece of 
clothesline. Uncle Frank, who took everything 
seriously, asked Little Jim if he had told his 
father where the horses were. 

“Sure I told him. Wouldn’t you? They’re 
dad’s bosses, Filaree and Josh. I guess he’ll 
make ole Clubfoot Sneed give ’em back!” 

“You want to be careful what you say about 
Mr. Sneed, Jimmy. And don’t you go to ridin’ 
over that way again. We aim to keep out of 
trouble.” 

Little Jim had succeeded in noosing the cat’s 
neck. That sadly molested animal jumped, 
rolled over, and clawed at the rope, and left 


AT AUNT JANE’S 


135 


hurriedly with the bit of clothesline trailing in 
its wake. 

“I got to git that cat afore he hangs himself,” 
stated Little Jim, diving out of the house and 
heading for the barn. Thus he avoided ac¬ 
knowledging his uncle’s command to stay away 
from Sneed’s place. 

Supper was over and the dishes were washed 
and put away when Cheyenne and Bartley 
appeared. Clean-shaven, his dark hair brushed 
smoothly, a small, dark-blue, silk muffler knot¬ 
ted loosely about his throat, and in a new flannel 
shirt and whipcord riding-breeches—which he 
wore under his jeans when on the trail—Bartley 
pretty well approximated Little Jim’s descrip¬ 
tion of him as a dude. And the word ‘‘dude” 
was commonly used rather to differentiate an 
outlander from a native than in an exactly 
scornful sense. Without a vestige of self- 
consciousness, Bartley made himself felt as a 
distinct entity, physically fit and mentally alert. 
Cheyenne, with his cow-puncher gait and his 
general happy-go-lucky attitude, furnished a 
strong contrast to the trim and well-poised 
Easterner. Dorothy was quick to appreciate 
this. She thought that she rather liked Bart¬ 
ley. He was different from the young men 


136 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


whom she knew. Bartley was pleased with her 
direct and natural manner of answering his 
many questions about Western life. 

Presently he found himself talking about his 
old home in Kentucky, and the thorough-bred 
horses of the Blue Grass. The conversation 
drifted to books and plays, but never once did 
it approach the subject of guns—and Little Jim, 
who had hoped that the subject of horse-thieves 
might be broached, felt altogether out of the 
running. 

He waited patiently, for a while. Then 
during a lull in the talk he mentioned Sneed’s 
name. 

‘‘Jimmy!” reprimanded his Uncle Frank. 

“Yes, sir?” 

Uncle Frank merely gestured, significantly. 

Little Jim subsided, frowning, and making a 
face at Dorothy, who was smiling at him. It 
seemed mighty queer that, when he “horned 
in,” his Aunt Jane or his uncle always said 
“Jimmy!” in that particular tone. But when 
any of the grown-ups interrupted, no one said 
a word. However, Bartley was not blind to 
Little Jim’s attitude of forced silence, and pres¬ 
ently Bartley mentioned the subject of guns, 
much to Little Jim’s joy. Little Jim worked 


AT AUNT JANE’S 


137 


round to the subject of twenty-two rifles, inti¬ 
mating that his own single-shot rifle was about 
worn out. 

Uncle Frank heard and promptly changed the 
subject. Little Jim was disgusted. A boy just 
couldn’t talk when other folks were talking, and 
he couldn’t talk when they were not. What was 
the use of living, anyhow, if you had to go around 
without talking at all, except when somebody 
asked you if you had forgotten to close the lane 
gate and had let the stock get into the alfalfa—• 
and you had to say that you had? 

However, Little Jim had his revenge. When 
Aunt Jane proffered apple pie, later in the 
evening, Jimmy prefixed his demand for a 
second piece with the statement that he knew 
there was another uncut pie in the kitchen, 
because Aunt Jane had said maybe his dad would 
eat half a one, and then ask for more. 

This gentle insinuation brought forth a sharp 
reprimand from Uncle Frank. But Jimmy had 
looked before he leaped. 

“Well, Aunt Jane said so. Didn’t you. 
Aunt Jane?” 

Whereat every one laughed, including the 
gentle Aunt Jane. And Jimmy got his second 
piece of pie. 


138 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


After the company had found itself. Uncle 
Frank, Cheyenne, and Bartley forgathered out 
on the veranda and talked about the missing 
horses. Little Jim sat silently on the steps, 
hoping that the talk would swing round to 
where he could have his say. If he had not 
discovered the missing horses, how would his 
father know where they were? It did not seem 
exactly fair to Little Jim that he should be 
ignored in the matter. 

‘T’d just ride over and talk with Sneed,” 
suggested Uncle Frank. 

“Oh, I’ll do that, all right,” asserted Chey¬ 
enne. 

“But I’d go slow. You might talk like your 
stock had strayed and you were looking for 
them. Sneed and Panhandle Sears are pretty 
thick. I’d start easy, if I was in your boots.” 

This from the cautious Uncle Frank. 

“But you’d go get ’em, if they happened to 
be your bosses,” said Cheyenne. “You’re always 
tellin’ me to step light and go slow. I reckon 
you expect me to sing and laugh and josh and 
take all the grief that’s cornin’ and forget it.” 

“No,” said Uncle Frank deliberately. “If 
they was my bosses, I’d ride over and get ’em. 
But I can’t step into your tangle. If I did. 


AT AUNT JANE’S 


139 


Sneed would just nacherally burn us out, some 
night. There’s only two ways to handle a man 
like Clubfoot Sneed: one is to kill him, and the 
other is to leave him alone. And it’s got to be 
one or the other when you live as close to the 
hills as we do. I aim to leave him alone, unless 
he tries to ride me.” 

“Which means that you kind of think I ought 
to let the bosses go, for fear of gettin’ you in 
bad.” 

Uncle Frank shook his head, but said nothing. 
Bartley smoked a cigar and listened to the 
conversation that followed. Called upon by 
Uncle Frank for his opinion, Bartley hesitated, 
and then said that, if the horses were his, he 
would be tempted to go and get them, regardless 
of consequences. Bartley’s stock went up, 
with Little Jim, right there. 

Cheyenne turned to Uncle Frank. “I’m 
ridin’ over to Clubfoot’s wikiup to-morrow 
mornin’. I’ll git my bosses, or git him. And 
I’m ridin’ alone.” 

Little Jim, meanwhile, had been raking his 
mind for an idea as to how he might attract 
attention. He disappeared. Presently he ap¬ 
peared in front of the veranda with the end of a 
long rope in his fist. He blinked and grinned. 


140 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


“What’s on the other end of that rope?” 
queried Uncle Frank, immediately suspicious. 

“Nothin’ but High-Tail.” 

“I thought I told you not to rope that calf,” 
said Uncle Frank, rising. 

“I didn’t. I jest held my loop in front of 
some carrots and High-Tail shoves his head 
into it. Then I says, ‘Whoosh!’ and he jumps 
back—and I hung on.” 

“How in Sam Hill did you get him here?” 
queried Uncle Frank. 

“Jest held a carrot to his nose—and he 
walked along tryin’ to get it.” 

“Well you shake off that loop and haze him 
back into the corral.” 

High-Tail, having eaten the carrot, decided 
to go elsewhere. He backed away and blatted. 
Little Jim took a quick dally round a veranda 
post. High-Tail plunged and fought the rope. 

“Turn him loose!” cried Uncle Frank. 

“What’s the matter?” said Aunt Jane, appear¬ 
ing in the doorway. 

Little Jim eased off the dally, but clung to 
the rope. High-Tail whirled and started for 
the corral. Little Jim set back on his heels, 
but Little Jim was a mere item in High-Tail’s 
wild career toward freedom. A patter of hoofs 


AT AUNT JANE’S 


141 


in the dark, and Little Jim and the calf dis-* 
appeared around the corner of the barn. 

Cheyenne laughed and rose, following Uncle 
Frank to the corral. When they arrived, High- 
Tail had made his third round of the corral, 
with Jimmy still attached to the rope. Chey¬ 
enne managed to stop the calf and throw off the 
noose. 

Little Jim rose and gazed wildly around. He 
was one color, from head to foot—^and it was a 
decidedly local color. His jeans were torn and 
his cotton shirt was in rags, but his grit was 
unsifted. 

‘‘D-didn’t I hang to him, dad.?’’ he inquired 
enthusiastically. 

“You sure did!” said Cheyenne. 

With a pail of hot water, soap, and fresh 
raiment. Aunt Jane undertook to make Little 
Jim’s return to the heart of the family as agree¬ 
able as possible to all concerned. 

“Isn’t he hurt.?” queried Bartley. 

“Not if he doesn’t know it,” stated Cheyenne. 


CHAPTER XIV 


ANOTHER GAME 

Cheyenne knew enough about Sneed, by repu¬ 
tation, to make him cautious. He decided to 
play ace for ace—^and, if possible, steal the 
stolen horses from Sneed. The difficulty was 
to locate them without being seen. Little 
Jim had said the horses were in Sneed’s corral, 
somewhere up in the mountain meadows. And 
because Cheyenne knew little about that par¬ 
ticular section of the mountains, he rolled a 
blanket and packed some provisions to see him 
through. Bartley and he had returned to their 
camp after their visit to the ranch, and next 
morning, as Cheyenne made preparation to ride, 
Bartley offered to go with him. 

Cheyenne dissuaded Bartley from accom¬ 
panying him, arguing that he could travel faster 
and more cautiously alone. ‘‘One man ridin’ 
in to Sneed’s camp wouldn’t look as suspicious 
as two,” said Cheyenne. “And if I thought you 
could help any, I’d say to come along. That’s 
on the square. Me and my little old carbine 
will make out, I guess.” 


ANOTHER GAME 


143 


So Bartley, somewhat against his inclination,' 
stayed in camp, with the understanding that, 
if Cheyenne did not return in two days, he was 
to report the circumstance to the authorities in 
San Andreas, the principal town of the valley. 

Meanwhile, the regular routine prevailed at 
the Lawrence ranch. Uncle Frank had the 
irrigation plant to look after; and Aunt Jane 
was immersed in the endless occupation of 
housekeeping. Little Jim had his regular light 
tasks to attend to, and that morning he made 
short work of them. It was not until noon that 
Aunt Jane missed him. He had disappeared 
completely, as had his saddle-pony. 

At first, Jimmy had thought of riding over to 
his father’s camp, but he was afraid his father 
would guess his intent and send him back home. 
So he tied his pony to a clump of junipers some 
distance from the camp, and, crawling to a rise, 
he lay and watched Cheyenne saddle up and 
take the trail that led into the high country. A 
half-hour later, Jimmy mounted his pony and, 
riding wide of the camp, he cut into the hill trail 
and followed it on up through the brush to the 
hillside timber. He planned to ride until he 
got so far into the mountains that when he 
did overtake his father and offer his assistance 


144 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


in locating the stolen horses, it would hardly 
seem worth while to send him back. Jimmy ex¬ 
pected to be ordered back, but he had his own 
argument ready in that event. 

Little Jim’s pony carried him swiftly up 
the grade. Meanwhile, Cheyenne had 
traveled rather slowly, saving his horse. At 
a bend in the trail he drew rein to breathe 
the animal. On the lookout for any moving 
thing, he glanced back and down—^and saw 
an old black hat bobbing along through the 
brush below. He leaned forward and peered 
down. ‘‘The little cuss!” he exclaimed, 
grinning. Then his expression changed. 
“Won’t do, a-tall! His aunt will be havin’ 
fits-—and Miss Dorry’ll be helpin’ her to 
have ’em, if she hears of it. Dog-gone that 
boy!” 

Nevertheless, Cheyenne was pleased. His 
boy had sand, and liked adventure. Little Jim 
might have stayed in camp, with Bartley, and 
spent a joyous day shooting at a mark, inciden¬ 
tally hinting to the Easterner that “his ole 
twenty-two was about worn out.” But Little 
Jim had chosen to follow his father into the 
hills. 

“Reckon he figures to see what’ll happen,” 


ANOTHER GAME 


145 


muttered Cheyenne as he led his horse ofiF the 
trail and waited for Jimmy to come up. 

Little Jim’s black hat bobbed steadily up 
the switchbacks. Presently he was on the 
stretch of trail at the end of which his father 
waited, concealed in the brush. 

As Little Jim’s pony approached the bend it 
pricked its ears and snorted. “Git along, 
you!” said Jimmy. 

“Where you goin’.f^” queried Cheyenne, step¬ 
ping out on the trail. 

Little Jim gazed blankly at his father. “I’m 
just a-ridin’. I wa’n’t goin’ no place.” 

“Well, you took the wrong trail to get there. 
You fan it back to the folks.” 

“Aunt Jane is my boss!” said Jimmy defiantly. 
“’Course she is,” agreed Cheyenne. “You and 
me, we’re just pardners. But, honest, Jimmy, 
you can’t do no good, doggin’ along after me. 
Your Aunt Jane would sure stretch my hide if 
she knowed I let you come along.” 

“I won’t tell her.” 

“But she’d find out. You just ride back and 
wait down at my camp. I’ll find them bosses, 
all right.” 

Little Jim hesitated, twisting his fingers in 
his pony’s mane. “Suppose,” he ventured. 


146 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


‘‘that a bunch of Sneed’s riders was to run on to 
you? You’d sure need help.” 

“That’s just it! Supposin’ they did? And 
supposin’ they took a crack at us, they might 
git you—^for you sure look man-size, a little 
piece off.” 

Jimmy grinned at the compliment, but com¬ 
pliments could not alter his purpose. “I got 
my ole twenty-two loaded,” he asserted hope¬ 
fully. 

“Then you just ride back and help Mr. 
Bartley take care of the bosses. He ain’t much 
of a hand with stock.” 

“Can’t I go with you?” 

“Not this trip, son. But I’ll tell you some¬ 
thin’. Mr. Bartley, down there, said to me 
this mornin’ that he was goin’ to buy you a 
brand-new twenty-two rifle, one of these days: 
mebby after we locate the bosses. You better 
have a talk with him about it.” 

This was a temptation to ride back: yet 
Jimmy had set his heart on going with his 
father. And his father had said that he was 
simply going to ride up to Sneed’s place and 
have a talk with him. Jimmy wanted to 
hear that talk. He knew that his father meant 
business when he had told him to go back. 


ANOTHER GAME 


147 


‘‘All right for you!’’ said Jimmy finally. And 
he reined his pony round and rode back down the 
trail sullenly, his black hat pulled over his eyes, 
and his small back very straight and stiff. 

Cheyenne watched him until the brush of the 
lower levels intervened. Then Cheyenne began 
the ascent, his eye alert, his mind upon the task 
ahead. When Little Jim realized that his father 
was so far into the timber that the trail below 
was shut from view, he reined his pony round 
again and began to climb the grade, slowly, this 
time, for fear that he might overtake his father 
too soon. 

Riding the soundless upland trail that mean¬ 
dered among the spruce and pine, skirting the 
edges of the mountain meadows and keeping 
within the timber, Cheyenne finally reached 
the main ridge of the range. Occasionally 
he dismounted and examined the tracks of 
horses. 

It was evident that Sneed had quite a bimch 
of horses running in the meadows. Presently 
Cheyenne came to a narrow trail which crossed 
a meadow. At the far end of the trail, close to 
the timber, was a spring, fenced with poles. The 
spring itself was boxed, and roundabout were the 
marks of high-heeled boots. Cheyenne realized 


148 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


that he must be close to Sneed’s cabin. He won¬ 
dered if he had been seen. 

If he had, the only thing to do was to act 
natural. He was now too close to a habitation 
•—although he could see none—to do otherwise. 
So he dismounted and, tying his horse to the 
spring fence, he stepped through the gate and 
picked up the rusted tin cup and dipped it in the 
cold mountain water. He had the cup halfway 
to his lips when his horse nickered. From some¬ 
where in the brush came an answering nicker. 
Cheyenne, kneeling, threw the water from the 
cup as though he had discovered dirt in it, and 
dipped the cup again. 

Behind him he heard his horse moving rest¬ 
lessly. As Cheyenne raised the cup to drink, he 
half closed his eyes, and glancing sideways, 
caught a glimpse of a figure standing near the 
upper end of the spring fence. Cheyenne drank, 
set down the cup, and, rising, turned his back on 
the figure, and, stretching his arms, yawned 
heartily. He strode to his horse, untied the 
reins, mounted, and began to sing: 

Seems like I don’t get anywhere 
Git along, cayuse, git along! 

But we’re leavin’ here and — 


ANOTHER GAME 


149 


‘‘What’s your hurry?” came from behind him. 

Cheyenne turned and glanced back. “Hello, 
neighbor! Now, if I’d ’a’ knowed you was 
around, I’d ’a’ asked you to have a drink with 
me.” 

A tall, heavy-set mountain man, bearded, and 
limping noticeably, stepped round the end of the 
spring fence and strode toward him. From 
Uncle Frank’s description, Cheyenne at once 
recognized the stranger as Sneed. Across Sneed’s 
left arm lay a rifle. Cheyenne saw him let down 
the hammer as he drew near. 

“W^here you headed?” queried Sneed. 

“Me, I’m lookin’ for Bill Sneed’s cabin. You 
ain’t Sneed, are you?” 

“Yes, I’m Sneed.” 

“Well, I’m in luck. I’m Cheyenne Hastings.” 

“That don’t buy you nothin’ around here. 
What do you want to see me about?” 

“Why, I done lost a couple of bosses the other 
night. I reckon somethin’ stampeded ’em, for 
they never strayed far from camp before. I 
trailed ’em up to the hills and then lost their 
tracks on the rocks. Thought I’d ride up and 
see if you had seen ’em—-a little ole buckskin 
and a gray.” 

Sneed waved his hand toward the east. “My 


150 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


corrals are over there. You’re welcome to look 
my stock over.” 

“Thanks. This way, you said.^” 

“Straight ahead.” 

Cheyenne hesitated, hoping that Sneed would 
take the lead. But the mountain man merely 
gestured again and followed Cheyenne through 
a patch of timber, and across another meadow— 
and Cheyenne caught a glimpse of the ridge of a 
cabin roof, and smoke above it. Close to the 
cabin was a large pole corral. Cheyenne saw the 
backs of Filaree and Joshua, among the other 
horses, long before he came to the corral. Yet, 
not wishing to appear too eager, he said 
nothing until he arrived at the corner of the 
fence. 

Then he turned and pointed. “Them’s my 
bosses—the gray and the buckskin. I’m mighty 
glad you caught ’em up.” 

Sneed nodded. “One of my boys found them 
in with a bunch of my stock and run them in 
here.” 

A few rods from the corral stood the cabin, 
larger than Cheyenne had imagined, and built 
of heavy logs, with a wide-roofed porch running 
across the entire front. On the veranda lay 
several saddles. Tied to the hitch rail stood 


ANOTHER GAME 


151 


two chunky mountain ponies that showed signs 
of recent hard use. 

Cheyenne smiled as he turned toward Sneed. 
'‘You got a mighty snug homestead up here, 
neighbor.” 

"Tie your horse and step in,” invited Sneed. 

"He’ll stand,” said Cheyenne, dismounting 
and dropping the reins. 

Cheyenne was in the enemy’s country. But 
he trusted to his ability to play up to his repu¬ 
tation for an easy-going hobo to get him out 
again, without trouble. He appeared unaware 
of the covert suspicion with which Sneed 
watched his every movement. 

"Meet the boys,” said Sneed as they entered 
the cabin. 

Cheyenne nodded to the four men who sat 
playing cards at a long table in the main room. 
They returned his nod indifferently and went on 
with their game. Cheyenne pretended an inter¬ 
est in the game, meanwhile studying the visible 
characteristics of the players. One and all they 
were hard-boiled, used to the open, rough- 
spoken, and indifferent to Cheyenne’s presence. 

Sneed stepped to the kitchen and pulled the 
coffeepot to the front of the stove. Finally 
Cheyenne strolled out to the veranda and seated 


152 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


himself on the long bench near the doorway. He 
picked up a stick and began to whittle, and as 
he whittled his gaze traveled from the log stable 
to the corral, and from there to the edge of the 
clearing. He heard Sneed speak to one of the 
men in a low voice. Cheyenne slipped his knife 
into his pocket and his fingers touched the pair 
of dice. 

He drew out the dice and rattled them. 
“Go ’way, you snake eyes!” he chanted as 
he threw the dice along the bench. “Little 
Jo, where you bushin’ out? You sure are 
bashful!” He threw again. “Roll on, you 
box-car! I don’t like you, nohow! Nine? 
Nine? Five and a four! Six and a three! Just 
as easy!” 

Sneed came to the doorway and glanced at 
Cheyenne, who continued shooting craps with 
himself, oblivious to Sneed’s muttered comment. 
Sneed turned and stepped in. “Crazy as a hoot 
owl,” he said as one of the card-players glanced 
up. 

Cheyenne picked up the dice and listened. 
He heard Sneed stepping heavily about the 
kitchen, and he heard an occasional and vivid 
exclamation from one of the card-players. He 
glanced at the distant edge of timber. He 


ANOTHER GAME 


153 


shook his head. “Can’t make it!” he declared, 
and again he threw the dice. 

One of the cubes rolled off the bench. He 
stooped and picked it up. As he straightened, 
he stared. Just at the edge of the timber he 
saw Little Jim’s pony, and Little Jim’s black 
hat. Some one in the cabin pushed back a 
chair. Evidently the card game was finished. 

Then Cheyenne heard Sneed’s voice: “Just 
lay off that game, if you want to eat. Come and 
get it.” 

Wondering what Little Jim was up to, Chey¬ 
enne turned and walked into the cabin. “Guess 
I’ll wash up, first,” he said, gazing about as 
though looking for the wherewithal to wash. He 
knew well enough where the basin was. He had 
noticed it out by the kitchen door, when he rode 
up to the cabin. Sneed told him where to find 
the basin. Cheyenne stepped round the cabin. 
Covertly he glanced toward the edge of the tim¬ 
ber. Little Jim had disappeared. 

Entering the cabin briskly, Cheyenne took his 
place at the table and ate heartily. 

Lawson, who seemed to be Sneed’s right-hand 
man, was the first to speak to him. “Bill tells 
me you are huntin’ bosses.” 

“Yep! That little gray and the buckskin, 


154 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


out in your corral, are my bosses. They 
strayed^— 

“Didn’t see no brand on ’em,” declared 
Lawson. 

“Nope. They never was branded. I raised 
’em both, when I was workin’ for Senator Steve, 
over to the Box-S.” 

“That sounds all right. But you got to show 
me. I bought them cayuses from a Chola, down 
in the valley.” 

Cheyenne suspected that Lawson was trying 
to create argument and, in so doing, open up a 
way to make him back down and leave or take 
the consequences of his act in demanding the 
horses. 

“Honest, they’re my bosses,” declared Chey¬ 
enne, turning to Sneed. 

“You’ll have to talk to Lawson,” said Sneed. 

Cheyenne frowned and scratched his head. 
Suddenly his face brightened. “Tell you what 
I’ll do! I’ll shoot you craps for ’em.” 

“That’s all right, but what’ll you put up 
against ’em?” asked Lawson. 

“What did you pay for ’em?” queried Chey¬ 
enne. 

“Fifty bucks.” 

“You got ’em cheap. They’re worth that 


ANOTHER GAME 


155 


much to me.’’ Cheyenne pushed back his chair 
and, fishing in his jeans, dug up a purse. “Here’s 
my fifty. As soon as you get through eatin’ we’ll 
shoot for the ponies.” 

Lawson, while finishing his meal, made up his 
mind that Cheyenne would not get away with 
that fifty dollars, game or no game; and, also, 
that he would not get the horses. Cheyenne 
knew this—^knew the kind of man he was dealing 
with. But he had a reason to keep the men in 
the cabin. Little Jim was out there somewhere, 
and up to something. If any of the men hap¬ 
pened to catch sight of Little Jim, they would 
suspect Cheyenne of some trickery. Moreover, 
if Little Jim were caught^—^but Cheyenne refused 
to let himself think of what might happen in 
that event. 

Cheyenne threw the dice on the table as 
Lawson got up. “Go ahead and shoot.” 

“Show me what I got to beat,” said Lawson. 

“All right. Watch ’em close.” 

Cheyenne gathered up the dice and threw. 
Calling his point, he snapped his fingers and 
threw again. The men crowded round, mo¬ 
mentarily interested in Cheyenne’s sprightly 
monologue. Happening to glance through the 
doorway as he gathered up the dice for another 


156 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


throw, Cheyenne noticed that his horse had 
turned and was standing, with ears and eyes 
alert, looking toward the corral. 

Cheyenne tossed up the dice, caught them and 
purposely made a wild throw. One of the little 
cubes shot across the table and clattered on the 
floor. Cheyenne barely had time to glance 
through the kitchen doorway and the window 
beyond as he recovered the cube. But he had 
seen that the corral bars were down and that the 
corral was empty. Quickly he resumed his 
place at the table and threw again, meanwhile 
talking steadily. He had not made his point 
nor had he thrown a seven. Sweat prickled on 
his forehead. Little Jim had seen his father’s 
horses and knew that the men were in the cabin. 
With the rashness of boyhood he had sneaked 
up to the corral, dropped the bars, and had then 
flung pine cones at the horses, starting them to 
milling and finally to a dash through the gate¬ 
way and out into the meadow. 

Cheyenne brushed his arm across his face. 
“Come on you, Filareel” he chanted. 

Somebody would be mightily surprised when 
the ownership of Filaree and Joshua was finally 
decided. Unwittingly, Little Jim had placed 
his father in a still more precarious position. 


ANOTHER GAME 


157 


Sneed and his men, finding the corral empty, 
would naturally conclude that Cheyenne had 
kept them busy while some friend had run ofif 
the horses. Cheyenne knew the risks he ran; 
but, above all, he wanted to prolong the game 
until Little Jim got safely beyond reach of 
Sneed’s men. As for himself— 

Again Cheyenne threw, but he did not make 
his point, nor throw a seven. He threw several 
times; and still he did not make his point. Fin¬ 
ally he made his point. Smiling, he gathered up 
his money and tucked it in his pocket. 

“I reckon that settles it,” he said cheerfully. 

Sneed and Lawson exchanged glances. Chey¬ 
enne, rolling a cigarette, drew a chair toward 
them and sat down. He seemed at home, and 
altogether friendly. One of the men picked up 
a deck of cards and suggested a game. Sneed 
lighted his pipe and stepped to the kitchen to 
get a drink of water. Cheyenne glanced casu¬ 
ally round the cabin, drew his feet under him¬ 
self, and jumped for the doorway. He heard 
Sneed drop the dipper and knew that Sneed 
would pick up something else, and quickly. 

Cheyenne made the saddle on the run, reined 
toward the corral, and, passing it on the run, 
turned in the saddle to glance back. Sneed was 


158 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


in the doorway. Cheyenne jerked his horse to 
one side and dug in the spurs. Sneed’s rifle 
barked and a bullet whined past Cheyenne’s 
head. He crouched in the saddle. Again a 
bullet whistled across the sunlit clearing. The 
cow-horse was going strong. A tree flicked 
past, then another and another. 

Cheyenne straightened in the saddle and 
glanced back through the timber. He saw a 
jumble of men and horses in front of the cabin. 
‘‘They got just two bosses handy, and they’re 
rode down,” he muttered as he sped through the 
shadows of the forest. 

Across another sun-swept meadow he rode, 
and into the timber again—and before he real¬ 
ized it he was back on the mountain trail that led 
to the valley. He took the first long, easy grade 
on the run, checked at the switchback, and 
pounded down the succeeding grade, still under 
cover of the hillside timber, but rapidly nearing 
the more open country of brush and rock. 

As he reined in at the second switchback he 
saw, far below, and going at a lively trot, seven 
or eight horses, and behind them, hazing them 
along as fast as the trail would permit. Little 
Jim. 

“If Sneed’s outfit gets to the rim before he 


ANOTHER GAME 


159 


makes the next turn, they’ll get him sure,” 
reasoned Cheyenne. 

He thought of turning back and trying to stop 
Sneed’s men. He thought of turning his horse 
loose and ambushing the mountainmen, afoot. 
But Cheyenne did not want to kill. His greatest 
fear was that Little Jim might get hurt. As he 
hesitated, a rifle snarled from the rim above, and 
he saw Little Jim’s horse flinch and jump for¬ 
ward. 

‘T reckon it’s up to us, old Steel Dust,” he 
said to his horse. 

Hoping to draw the fire of the men above, he 
eased his horse round the next bend and then 
spurred him to a run. Below, Little Jim was 
jogging along, within a hundred yards or so of 
the bend that would screen him from sight. 
Realizing that he could never make the next 
turn on the run, Cheyenne gripped with his 
knees, and leaned back to meet the shock as 
Steel Dust plunged over the end of the turn and 
crashed through the brush below. A slug 
whipped through the brush and clipped a twig 
in front of the horse. 

Steel Dust swerved and lunged on down 
through the heavy brush. A naked creek-bed 
showed white and shimmering at the bottom of 


160 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


the slope. Again a slug whined through the 
sunlight and Cheyenne’s hat spun from his head 
and settled squarely on a low bush. It was 
characteristic of Cheyenne that he grabbed for 
his hat—and got it as he dashed past. 

‘‘Keep the change,” said Cheyenne as he 
ducked beneath a branch and straightened up 
again. He was almost to the creek-bed, naked 
to the sunlight, and a bad place to cross with 
guns going from above. He pulled up, slipped 
from his horse, and slapped him on the flank. 

The pony leaped forward, dashed across the 
creek-bed, and cut into the trail beyond. A 
bullet flattened to a silver splash on a boulder. 
Another bullet shot a spurt of sand into the air. 
Cheyenne crouched tense, and then made a 
rush. A slug sang past his head. Heat palpi¬ 
tated in the narrow draw. He gained the oppo¬ 
site bank, dropped, and crawled through the 
brush and lay panting, close to the trail. From 
above him somewhere came the note of a bird: 
Chirr-up! Chirr-up! Again a slug tore through 
the brush scattering twigs and tiny leaves on 
Cheyenne’s hat. 

“That one didn’t say, ‘Cheer up!’ ” mur¬ 
mured Cheyenne. 

When he had caught his breath he crawled out 


ANOTHER GAME 


161 


and into the narrow trail. The shooting had 
ceased. Evidently the men were riding. Step¬ 
ping round the shoulder of the next bend, he 
peered up toward the rim of the range. A tiny 
figure appeared riding down the first long grade, 
and then another figure. Turning, he saw his 
own horse quietly nipping at the grass in the 
crevices of the rocks along the trail. 

He walked down to the horse slowly and 
caught him up. Loosening his carbine from the 
scabbard, and deeming himself lucky to have it, 
after that wild ride down the mountain, he 
stepped back to the angle of the bend, rested the 
carbine against a rocky shoulder and dropped a 
shot in front of the first rider, who stopped sud¬ 
denly and took to cover. 

‘‘That’ll hold ’em for a spell,” said Cheyenne, 
stepping back. He mounted and rode on down 
the trail, eyeing the tracks of the horses that 
Little Jim was hazing toward the valley below. 
Cheyenne shook his head. “He’s done run off 
the whole doggone outfit! There’s nothin’ 
stingy about that kid.” 

Striking to the lower level, Cheyenne cut 
across country to his camp. He found Bartley 
leaning comfortably back against a saddle, 
reading aloud, and opposite him sat Dorry, so 


162 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


intent upon the reading that she did not hear 
Cheyenne until he spoke. 

“Evenin’, folks! Seen anything of Jimmy?” 

“Oh—Cheyenne! No, have you?” It was 
Dorothy who spoke, as Bartley closed the book 
and got to his feet. 

“Was you lookin’ for Jimmy’s address in that 
there book?” queriedCheyenne, grinning broadly. 

Dorothy flushed and glanced at Bartley, who 
immediately changed the subject by calling at¬ 
tention to Cheyenne’s hat. Cheyenne also 
changed the subject by stating that Jimmy had 
recently ridden down the trail toward the ranch 
—^with some horses. 

“Then you got your horses?” said Bartley. 

“I reckon they’re over to the ranch about 
now.” 

“Jimmy has been gone all day,” said Dorothy. 
“Aunt Jane is terribly worried about him.” 

“Jimmy and me took a little ride in the hills,” 
said Cheyenne casually. “But you needn’t to 
tell Aunt Jane that Jimmy was with me. It 
turned out all right.” 

“I rode over to your camp to look for Jimmy,” 
said Dorothy, “but Mr. Bartley had not seen 
him.” 

Cheyenne nodded and reined his horse round. 


ANOTHER GAME 


163 


“Why, your shirt is almost ripped from your 
back!” said Bartley. 

“My hoss shied, back yonder, and stepped off 
into the brush. We kept on through the brush. 
It was shorter.” 

Dorothy mounted her horse, and, nodding 
farewell to Bartley, accompanied Cheyenne to 
the ranch. When they were halfway there, 
Dorothy, who had been riding thoughtfully 
along, saying nothing, turned to her companion: 
“Cheyenne, you had trouble up there. You 
might at least tell me about it.” 

“Well, Miss Dorry—” And Cheyenne told her 
how Jimmy had followed him, how he had sent 
Jimmy back, and the unexpected appearance of 
that young hopeful in the timber near Sneed’s 
cabin. “I was in there, figurin’ hard how to get 
my bosses and get away, when, somehow, 
Jimmy got to the corral and turned Sneed’s 
stock loose and hazed ’em down the trail. But 
where he run ’em to is the joke. I figured he 
would show up at our camp. It would be just 
like him to run the whole bunch into the ranch 
corral. And I reckon he done it.” 

“But, Mr. Sneed!” exclaimed Dorothy. “If 
he finds qut we had anything to do with run¬ 
ning off his horses—•” 


164 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


“He never saw Jimmy dost enough to tell 
who he was. ’Course, Sneed knows Aunt Jane 
is my sister, and most he’ll suspicion is that I 
got help from some of my folks. But so far he 
don’t know who helped me turn the trick.” 

“You don’t seem to be very serious about it,” 
declared Dorothy. 

“Serious? Me? Why, ain’t most folks serious 
enough without everybody bein’ took that way?” 

“Perhaps. But I knew something had hap¬ 
pened the minute you rode into camp.” 

“So did I,” asserted Cheyenne, and he spoke 
sharply to his horse. 

Dorothy flushed. “Cheyenne,. I rode over to 
find Jimmy. You needn’t—• Oh, there’s Aunt 
Jane now! And there’s Jimmy, and the corral 
is full of horses!” 

“Reckon we better step along,” and Chey¬ 
enne put Steel Dust to a lope. 


CHAPTER XV 

MORE PONY TRACKS 

Summoned from the west end of the ranch, 
where he had been irrigating the alfalfa. Uncle 
Frank arrived at the house just as Cheyenne 
and Dorothy rode up. Little Jim was excitedly 
endeavoring to explain to Aunt Jane how the 
corral came to be filled with strange horses. 

Uncle Frank nodded to Cheyenne and turned 
to Jimmy. ‘'Wliere you been?” 

‘T was over on the mountain.” 

‘‘How did these horses get here?” 

Uncle Frank’s eye was stern. Jimmy hesi¬ 
tated. He had been forbidden to go near Sneed’s 
place; and he knew that all that stood between a 
harness strap and his small jeans was the pres¬ 
ence of Dorothy and Cheyenne. It was pretty 
tough to have recovered the stolen horses single- 
handed, and then to take a licking for it. 

Little Jim gazed hopefully at his father. 

“Why, I was chousin’ around up there,” he 
explained, “and I seen dad’s bosses, and—and I 
started ’em down the trail and the whole blame 


166 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


bunch followed ’em. They was travelin’ so fast 
I couldn’t cut ’em out, so I just let ’em drift. 
Filaree and Josh just nacherally headed for the 
corral and the rest followed ’em in.” 

Uncle Frank gazed sternly at Jimmy. “Who 
told you to help your father get his horses.^” 

“Nobody.” 

“Did your Aunt Jane tell you you could go 
over to the mountain.'^” 

“I never asked her.” 

“You trot right into the house and stay there,” 
said Uncle Frank. 

Little Jim cast an appealing glance at Chey¬ 
enne and walked slowly toward the house, inci¬ 
dentally and unconsciously rubbing his hand 
across his jeans with a sort of anticipatory move¬ 
ment. He bit his lip, and the tears started to 
his eyes. But he shook them away, wondering 
what he might do to avert the coming storm. 
Perhaps his father would interpose between him 
and the dreaded harness strap. Yet Jimmy 
knew that his father had never interfered when 
a question of discipline arose. 

Suddenly Little Jim’s face brightened. He 
marched through the house to the wash bench, 
and, unsolicited, washed his hands and face 
and soaped his hair, after which he slicked it 


MORE PONY TRACKS 


167 


down carefully, so that there might be no 
mistake about his having brushed and combed 
it. He rather hoped that Uncle Frank or 
Aunt Jane would come in just then and find him 
at this unaccustomed task. It might help. 

Meanwhile, Cheyenne and his brother-in-law 
had a talk, outside. Dorothy and Aunt Jane 
retired to the veranda, talking in low tones. 
Presently Little Jim, who could stand the strain 
no longer5^—the jury seemed a long time at 
arriving at a verdict,^—appeared on the front 
veranda, hatless, washed, and his hair fearfully 
and wonderfully brushed and combed. 

‘‘Why, Jimmy!’’ exclaimed Dorothy. 

Jimmy fidgeted and glanced away bashfully. 
Presently he stole to his Aunt Jane’s side. 

“Am I goin’ to get a lickin’?” he queried. 

Aunt Jane shook her head, and patted his 
hand. Entrenched beside Aunt Jane, Jimmy 
watched his father and Uncle Frank as they 
talked by the big corral. Uncle Frank was 
gesturing toward the mountains. Cheyenne 
was arguing quietly. 

“It ain’t just the runnin’ off of Sneed’s 
bosses,” said Uncle Frank. “That’s bad enough. 
But I told Jimmy to keep away from Sneed’s.” 

“So did I,” declared Cheyenne. “And seein’ 


168 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


as I’m his dad, it’s up to me to lick him if he’s 
goin’ to get licked.” 

‘‘Sneed is like to ride down some night and 
set fire to the barns,” asserted Uncle Frank. 

“Sneed don’t know yet who run off his stock. 
And he can’t say that I did, and prove it. Now, 
Frank, you just hold your bosses. I’ll ride over 
to camp and get my outfit together and come 
over here. Then we’ll throw Steve Brown’s 
bosses into your pasture, and I’ll see that Sneed’s 
stock is out of here, pronto.” 

“That’s all right. But Sneed will trail his 
stock down here.” 

“But he won’t find ’em here. And he’ll 
never know they was in your corral.” 

Uncle Frank shook his head doubtfully. He 
was a pessimist and always argued the worst of a 
possible situation. 

“And before I’ll see Jimmy take a lickin* 
—-this trip—I’ll ride back and shoot it out with 
Sneed and his outfit,” stated Cheyenne. 

“I reckon you’re fool enough to do it,” said 
Uncle Frank. 

An hour later Bartley and Cheyenne were at 
the Lawrence ranch, where they changed packs, 
saddled Filaree and Joshua, and turned the 


MORE PONY TRACKS 


169 


horses borrowed from Steve Brown into Uncle 
Frank’s back pasture. 

Little Jim watched these operations with 
keen interest. He wanted to help, but refrained 
for fear that he would muss up his hair^—^and 
he wanted Uncle Frank to notice his hair as it 
was. 

Aunt Jane hastily prepared a meal and 
Dorothy helped. 

In a few minutes Cheyenne and Bartley had 
eaten, and were ready for the road. Cheyenne 
stepped up and shook hands with Jimmy, as 
though Jimmy were a grown-up. Jimmy felt 
elated. There was no one just like his father, 
even if folks did say that Cheyenne Hastings 
could do better than ride around the country 
singing and joking with everybody. 

“And don’t forget to stop by when you come 
back,” said Aunt Jane, bidding farewell to 
Bartley. 

Dorothy shook hands with the Easterner and 
wished him a pleasant journey, rather coolly, 
Bartley thought. She was much more animated 
when bidding farewell to Cheyenne. 

“And I won’t forget to send you that rifle,” 
said Bartley as he nodded to Little Jim. 

Uncle Frank helped them haze Sneed’s horses 


170 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


out of the yard on to the road, where Cheyenne 
waited to head them from taking the hill trail, 
again. 

Just as he left, Bartley turned to Dorothy 
who stood twisting a pomegranate bud in her 
fingers. “May I have it?"' he asked, half in 
jest. 

She tossed the bud to him and he caught it. 
Then he spurred out after Cheyenne who was 
already hazing the horses down the road. Oc¬ 
casionally one of the horses tried to break out 
and take to the hills, but Cheyenne always 
headed it back to the bunch, determined, for 
some reason unknown to Bartley, to keep the 
horses together and going south. 

The road climbed gradually, winding in and 
out among the foothills. As the going became 
stiffer, the rock outcropped and the dust settled. 

The horses slowed to a walk. Bartley won¬ 
dered why his companion seemed determined 
to drive Sneed’s stock south. He thought it 
would be just as well to let them break for the 
hills, and not bother with them. But Cheyenne 
offered no explanation. He evidently knew 
what he was about. 

To their right lay the San Andreas Valley 
across which the long, slanting shadows of 


MORE PONY TRACKS 


171 


sunset crept slowly. Still Cheyenne kept the 
bunch of horses going briskly, when the going 
permitted speed. Just over a rise they came 
suddenly upon an Apache, riding a lean, active 
paint horse. Cheyenne pulled up and talked 
with the Indian. The latter grinned, nodded, 
and, jerking his pony round, rode after the horses 
as they drifted ahead. Bartley saw the Apache 
bunch the animals again, and turn them off the 
road toward the hills. 

“Didn’t expect to meet up with luck, so soon,” 
declared Cheyenne. “I figured to turn Sneed’s 
bosses loose when I’d got ’em far enough from 
the ranch. But that Injun’ll take care of ’em. 
Sneed ain’t popular with the Apaches. Sneed’s 
cabin is right dost to the res’avation line.” 

“What will the Indian do with the horses?” 
queried Bartley. 

“Most like trade ’em to his friends.” 

Bartley gestured toward a spot of green far 
across the valley. “Looks like a town,” he said. 

“San Andreas—^and that’s where we stop, 
to-night. No campin’ in the brush for me while 
Sneed is ridin’ the country lookin’ for his stock. 
It wouldn’t be healthy.” 


CHAPTER XVI 

SAN ANDREAS TOWN 

A SLEEPY town, that paid little attention to the 
arrival or departure of strangers, San Andreas 
in the valley merely rubbed its eyes and dozed 
again as Cheyenne and Bartley rode in, put up 
their horses at the livery, and strolled over to 
the adobe hotel where they engaged rooms for 
the night. 

Bartley was taken by the picturesque sim¬ 
plicity of the place, and next morning he sug¬ 
gested that they stay a few days and enjoy the 
advantage of having some one other than them¬ 
selves cook their meals and make their beds. 
The hotel, a relic of old times, with its patio and 
long portal, its rooms whose lower floors were 
on the ground level, its unpretentious spacious¬ 
ness, appealed strongly to Bartley as something 
unusual in the way of a hostelry. It seemed 
restful, romantic, inviting. It was a place where 
a man might write, dream, loaf, and smoke. 
Then, incidentally, it was not far from the 
Lawrence ranch, which was not far from the 


SAN ANDREAS TOWN 


173 


home of a certain young woman whom Little 
Jim called “Dorry/’ 

Bartley thought that Dorothy was rather nice 
—in fact, singularly interesting. He had not 
imagined that a Western girl could be so thor¬ 
oughly domestic, natural, charming, and at the 
same time manage a horse so well. He had 
visioned Western girls as hard-voiced horse¬ 
women, masculine, bold, and father scornful of 
a man who did not wear chaps and ride broncos. 
True, Dorothy was not like the girls in the East. 
She seemed less sophisticated^—less inclined to 
talk small talk just for its own sake; yet, con¬ 
cluded Bartley, she was utterly feminine and 
quite worth while. 

Cheyenne smiled as Bartley suggested that 
they stay in San Andreas a few days; and 
Cheyenne nodded in the direction from which 
they had come. 

‘T kinda like this part of the country, myself,’’ 
he said, “but I hate to spend all my money in 
one place.” 

Bartley suddenly realized that his companion 
was nothing more than a riding hobo, a vagrant, 
without definite means of support, and disin¬ 
clined to stay in any one place long. 

“I’ll take care of the expenses,” said Bartley. 


174 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


Cheyenne smiled, but shook his head. “It 
ain’t that, right now. Me, I got to shoot that 
there game of craps with Panhandle, and I 
figure he won’t ride this way.” 

“But you have recovered your horses,” argued 
Bartley. 

Cheyenne gestured toward the south. ‘T 
reckon I’ll keep movin’, pardner. And that 
game of craps is as good a excuse as I want.” 

“I had hoped that it would be plain sailing, 
from now on,” declared Bartley. “I thought 
of stopping here only three or four days. This 
sort of town is new to me.” 

“They’s lots like it, between here and the 
border,” said Cheyenne. “But I don’£ want no 
’dobe walls between me and the sky-line, 
reg’lar. I can stand it for a day, mebby.” 

“Well, perhaps we may agree to dissolve 
partnership tempofarily,” suggested Bartley. 
“I think I’ll stay here a few days, at least.” 

“That’s all right, pardner. I don’t aim to 
tell no man how to live. But me, I aim to 
live in the oi>en.” 

“Do you think that man Sneed will ride down 
this way?” queried Bartley, struck by a sudden 
idea. 

“That ain’t why I figure to keep movin’,” 


SAN ANDREAS TOWN 


175 


said Cheyenne, “But seein’ as you figure to 
stay, I’ll stick around to-day, and light out 
to-morrow mornin’. Mebby you’ll change your 
mind, and come along.” 

Bartley spent the forenoon with Cheyenne, 
prowling about the old town, interested in its 
quaint unusualness. The afternoon heat drove 
him to the shade of the hotel veranda, and, feel¬ 
ing unaccountably drowsy, he finally went to 
his room, and, stretching out on the bed, fell 
asleep. He was awakened by Cheyenne’s knock 
at the door. Supper was ready. 

After supper they strolled out to the street 
and watched the town wake up. From down the 
street a ways came the sound of a guitar and 
singing. A dog began to howl. Then came a 
startled yelp, and the howl died away in the 
dusk. The singing continued. A young Mexi¬ 
can in a blue serge suit, tan shoes, and with a 
black sombrero set aslant on his head, walked 
down the street beside a Mexican girl, young, 
fat, and giggling. They passed the hotel with 
all the self-consciousness of being attired in their 
holiday raiment. 

A wagon rattled past and stopped at the saloon 
a few doors down the street. Then a ragged 
Mexican, hazing two tired burros, appeared in 


176 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


the dim light cast from a window ^—a quaint 
silhouette that merged in the farther shadows. 
Cheyenne moved his feet restlessly. 

Bartley smiled. "‘The road for mine,” he 
quoted. 

Cheyenne nodded. “Reckon I’ll go see how 
the bosses are makin’ it.” 

“I’ll walk over with you,” said Bartley. 

As they came out of the livery barn again, 
Bartley happened to glance at the lighted door¬ 
way of the cantina opposite. From within the 
saloon came the sound of glasses clinking 
occasionally, and voices engaged in lazy conver¬ 
sation. Cheyenne fingered the dice in his 
pocket and hummed a tune. Slowly he moved 
toward the lighted doorway, and Bartley walked 
beside him. 

“I got a thirst,” stated Cheyenne. 

Bartley laughed. “Well, as we are about to 
dissolve partnership, I don’t mind taking one 
myself.” 

“Tough joint,” declared Cheyenne as he 
stepped up to the doorway. 

“All the better,” said Bartley. 

A young rancher, whose team stood at 
the hitch-rail, nodded pleasantly as they 
entered. 


SAN ANDREAS TOWN 


177 


“Mescal/’ said Cheyenne, and he laid a silver 
dollar on the bar. 

Bartley glanced about the low-ceilinged room. 
The place, poorly lighted with oil lamps, looked 
sinister enough to satisfy the most hardy adven¬ 
turer, although it was supposed to be a sort of 
social center for the enjoyment of vino and talk. 
The bar was narrow, made of seme kind of soft 
wood, and painted blhe. The top of it was 
almost paintless in patches. 

Back of the bar a narrow shelf, also painted 
blue, oflfered a lean choice of liquors. Several 
Mexicans lounged at the side tables along the 
wall. The young American rancher stood at 
the bar, drinking. The proprietor, a fat, one- 
eyed Mexican whose face was deeply pitted from 
smallpox, served Bartley and Cheyenne grudg¬ 
ingly. The mescal was fiery stuff. Bartley 
coughed as he swallowed it. 

“Why not just whiskey, and have it over 
with.?^” he queried, grinning at Cheyenne. 

“Whiskey ain’t whiskey, here,” Cheyenne 
replied. “But mescal is just what she says she 
is. I like to know the kind of poison I’m drink- 
in’.” 

Bartley began to experience an inner glow 
that was not unpleasant. Once down, this 


178 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


native Mexican drink was not so bad. He laid 
a coin on the bar and the glasses were filled again. 
Cheyenne nodded and drank Bartley’s health. 
Bartley suggested that they sit at one of the side 
tables and study the effects of mescal on the 
natives present. 

‘‘Let joy be unconfined,” said Cheyenne. 

“Where in the world did you get that.^” 

“Oh, I can read,” declared Cheyenne. “Be¬ 
fore I took to ramblin’, I used to read some, 
nights. I reckon that’s where I got the idea of 
makin’ up po’try, later.” 

“I really beg your pardon,” said Bartley. 

“The mescal must of told you.” 

“I don’t quite get that,” said Bartley. 

“No.^ Well, you ain’t the first. Josh and 
Filaree is the only ones that sabes me. Let’s 
sit in this corner and watch the mescal work 
for a livin’.” 

It was a hot night. Sweat prickled on Bart¬ 
ley’s forehead. His nose itched. He lit a 
cigar. It tasted bitter, so he asked Cheyenne 
for tobacco and papers, and rolled a cigarette. 
He inhaled a whiff, and felt more comfortable. 
The Mexicans, who had ceased to talk when 
Bartley and Cheyenne entered, were now at it 
again, making plenty of noise. 


SAN ANDREAS TOWN 


179 


Cheyenne hummed to himself and tapped the 
floor with his boot-heel. “She’s a funny old 
world,” he declared. 

Bartley nodded and blew a smoke-ring. 

“Miss Dorry’s sure a interestin’ girl,” as¬ 
serted Cheyenne. 

Bartley nodded again. 

“Kind of young and innocent-like.” 

Again Bartley nodded. 

“It ain’t a bad country to settle down in, for 
folks that likes to settle,” said Cheyenne. 

Bartley glanced sharply at his companion. 
Cheyenne was gazing straight ahead. His face 
was unreadable. 

“Now if I was the settlin’ kind—He paused 
and slowly turned toward Bartley. “A man 
could raise alfalfa and chickens and kids.” 

“Go ahead,” laughed Bartley. 

“I’m goin’^—'to-morrow mornin’. And you 
say you figure to stay here a spell?” 

“Oh, just a few days. I imagine I shall grow 
tired of it. But to-night, I feel pretty well 
satisfied to stay right where I am.” 

Cheyenne rose and strode to the bar. After 
a short argument with the proprietor, he re¬ 
turned with a bottle and glasses. Bartley 
raised his eyebrows questioningly. 


180 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


“Once in a while—And Cheyenne ges¬ 
tured toward the bottle. 

“It’s powerful stuff,” said Bartley. 

“We ain’t far from the hotel,” declared Chey¬ 
enne. And he filled their glasses. 

“This ought to be the last, for me,” said 
Bartley, drinking. “But don’t let that make 
any difference to you.” 

Cheyenne drank and shrugged his shoulders. 
He leaned back and gazed at the opposite wall. 
Bartley vaguely realized that the Mexicans 
were chattering, that two or three persons had 
come in, and that the atmosphere was heavy 
with tobacco smoke. He unbuttoned his shirt- 
collar. 

Presently Cheyenne twisted round in his 
chair. “Remember Little Jim, back at the 
Hastings ranch?” 

“I should say so! It would be difficult to 
forget him.” 

“Miss Dorry thinks a heap of that kid.” 

“She seems to.” 

“Now, I ain’t drunk,” Cheyenne declared 
solemnly. “I sure wish I was. You know 
Little Jim is my boy. Well, his ma is livin’ 
over to Laramie. She writ to me to come 
back to her, onct. I reckon Sears got tired of 


SAN ANDREAS TOWN 


181 


her. She lived with him a spell after she quit 
me. Folks say Sears treated her like a dog. I 
guess I wasn’t man enough, when I heard 
that—■” 

“You mean Panhandle Sears—^at Antelope?” 

“Him.” 

“Oh, I see!” said Bartley slowly. “And that 
crap game, at Antelope—see!” 

“If Panhandle had a-jumped me, instead of 
you, that night, I’d ’a’ killed him. Do you 
know why Wishful stepped in and put Sears 
down? Wishful did that so that there wouldn’t 
be a killin’. That’s the second time Sears has 
had his chance to git me, but he won’t take that 
chance. That’s the second time we met up 
since^—since my wife left me. The third time 
it’ll be lights out for somebody. I ain’t drunk.” 

“Then Sears has got a yellow streak?” 

“Any man that uses a woman rough has. 
W'hen Jimmy’s ma left us, I reckon I went 
loco. It wa’n’t just her leavin^ us. But when 
I heard she had took up with Sears, and knowin’ 
what he was—^I just quit. I was workin’ down 
here at the ranch, then. I went up North, 
figurin’ to kill him. Folks thought I was yellow, 
for not killin’ him. They think so right now. 
Mebby I am. 


182 


PAKTNERS OF CHANCE 


“I worked up North a spell, but I couldn’t 
stay. So I lit out and come down South again. 
First time I met up with Sears was over on 
the Tonto. He stepped up and slapped my 
face, in front of a crowd, in the Lone Star. And 
I took it. But I told him I’d sure see him 
again, and give him another chance to slap my 
face. 

“You see. Panhandle Sears is that kind— 
he’s got to work himself up to kill a man. And 
over there at Antelope, that night, he just about 
knowed that if he lifted a finger, I’d git him. 
He figured to start a ruckus, and then git me 
in the mix-up. Wishful was on, and he stopped 
that chance. Folks think that because I come 
ridin’ and singin’ and joshin’ that I ain’t no 
account. Mebby I ain’t.” 

Cheyenne poured another drink for himself. 
Bartley declined to drink again. He w^as think¬ 
ing of this squalid tragedy and of its possible 
outcome. The erstwhile sprightly Cheyenne 
held a new significance for the Easterner. That 
a man could ride up and down the trails singing, 
and yet carry beneath it all the grim intent some 
day to kill a man—' 

Bartley felt that Cheyenne had suddenly be¬ 
come a stranger, an unknown quantity, a sinister 


SAN ANDREAS’ TOWN 


183 


jester, in fact, a dangerous man. He leaned 
forward and touched Cheyenne’s arm. 

“Why not give up the idea of—er—‘getting 
Sears; and settle down, and make a home for 
Little Jim?” 

“When Aunt Jane took him, the understand- 
in’ was that Jimmy was to be raised respectable, 
which is the same as tellin’ me that I don’t 
have nothin’ to do with raisin’ him. Me, I 
got to keep movin’.” 

Bartley^ turned toward the doorway as a tall 
figure loomed through the haze of tobacco 
smoke: a gaunt, heavy-boned man, bearded 
and limping slightly. With him were several 
companions, booted and spurred; evidently just 
in from a hard ride. 

Cheyenne turned to Bartley. “That’s Bill 
Sneed—^and his crowd. I ain’t popular with 
’em—right now.” 


CHAPTER XVII 


THAT MESCAL 

“ The man who had your horses? ” queried 
Bartley. 

Cheyenne nodded. “The one at the end of 
the bar. The hombre next to him is Lawson, 
who claims he bought my bosses from a Mexican, 
down here. Lawson is the one that is huntin’ 
trouble. Sneed don’t care nothin’ about a couple 
of cayuses. He won’t start anything. He’s 
here just to back up Lawson if things git inter¬ 
estin’.” 

“But what can they do? We’re here, in 
town, minding our own business. They know 
well enough that Panhandle stole your horses. 
And you said the people in San Andreas don’t 
like Sneed a whole lot.” 

“Because they’re scared of him and his 
crowd. And we’re strangers here. It’s just 
me and Lawson, this deal. Sneed is sizin’ you 
up, back of his whiskers, right now. He’s 
tryin’ to figure out who you are. Sneed ain’t 
one to run into the law when they’s anybody 
lookin’ on. He works different. 


THAT MESCAL 


185 


‘‘Now, while he is figurin’, you just git up 
easy and step out and slip over to the barn 
and saddle up Joshua. I’m goin’ to need him. 
Take the tie-rope off Filaree and leave him loose 
in his stall. Just say ‘Adios’ to me when you 
git up, like you was goin’ back to the hotel. And 
if you’ll settle what we owe—*” 

“That’s all right. But my feet aren’t cold, 
yet.” 

“You figure to stay in town a spell, don’t 
you.^ Well, I figure to leave, right soon. I’m 
tryin’ to dodge trouble. It’s your chanct to 
help out.” 

“Why can’t we both walk out?” 

“ ’Cause they’d follow us. They won’t fol¬ 
low you.” 

Bartley glanced at the men ranged along the 
bar, rose, and, shaking hands with Cheyenne, 
strode out, nodding pleasantly to the one-eyed 
proprietor as he went. 

Sneed eyed the Easterner sharply, and nudged 
one of his men as Bartley passed through the 
doorway. 

“Just step out and see where he goes, Hull,” 
he ordered in an undertone. “Keep him in 
sight.” 

The man spoken to hitched up his chaps. 


186 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


and, turning to finish his drink, strolled out 
casually. 

Bartley saw a row of saddle-horses tied at 
the rail. He noticed the slickers on the saddles 
and the carbines under the stirrup leathers. 
It was evident that the riders were not entirely 
on pleasure bent. He crossed the street, wak¬ 
ened the stableman, paid the bill, and saddled 
Joshua. Then he took the tie-rope off Filaree, 
as Cheyenne had directed. Bartley led Joshua 
through the barn to the back, where he was 
tying him to a wagon wheel when a figure 
loomed up in the semi-darkness. 

“Hidin’, stranger.^” 

The figure struck a match and lighted a 
cigarette. Bartley at once recognized him as 
one of Sneed’s men. Resenting the other’s 
question and his attitude of easy familiarity, 
Bartley ignored his presence. 

“Hard of bearin’?” queried Hull. 

“Rather.” 

“I said: Was you ridin’?” 

“Yesterday,” replied Bartley. 

Hull blew a whiff of smoke in Bartley’s face. 
It seemed casual, but was intended as an insult. 
Bartley flushed, and realizing that the other 
was there to intercept any action on his part to 


THAT MESCAL 


187 


aid Cheyenne, he dropped Joshua’s reins, and 
without the slightest warning of his intent— 
in fact, Hull thought the Easterner was stooping 
to pick up the reins^—-Bartley launched a 
haymaker that landed* with a loud crack 
on Hull’s unguarded chin, and Hull’s head 
snapped back. Bartley jumped forward and 
shot another one to the same spot. Hull’s 
head hit the edge of the doorway as he went 
down. 

He lay there, inert, a queer blur in the half- 
light. Bartley licked his skinned knuckles. 

‘‘He may resent this, when he wakes up,” 
he murmured. “I believe I’ll tie him.” 

Bartley took Joshua’s tie-rope and bound Mr. 
Hull’s arms and legs, amateurishly, but securely. 
Then he strode through to the front of the barn. 
He could hear loud talking in the saloon opposite 
and thought he could distinguish Cheyenne’s 
voice. Bartley wondered what would happen 
in there, and when things would begin to pop, 
if there was to be any popping. He felt fool¬ 
ishly helpless and inefficient^—^rather a poor ex¬ 
cuse for a partner, just then. Yet there was 
that husky rider, back there in the straw. He 
was even more helpless and inefficient. Bartley 
licked his knuckles, and grinned. 


188 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


“There must have been a little mescal in 
that second punch,” he thought. “I never hit 
so hard in my life.” 

The stableman had retired to his bunk—a 
habit of night stablemen. The stable was dark 
and still, save for the munching of the horses. 
In the saloon across the way Cheyenne was 
facing Sneed and his men, alone. Bartley felt 
like a quitter. Indecision irritated him, and 
curiosity urged him to do something other than 
to stand staring at the saloon front. He recalled 
his plan to sojourn in San Andreas a few days, 
and incidently to ride over to the Lawrence 
ranch^—^frankly, to have another visit with 
Dorothy. He shrugged his shoulders. That 
idea now seemed insignificant, compared with 
the present possibilities. 

“I’m a free agent,” he soliloquized. “I think 
I’ll take a hand in this, myself.” 

He snapped his fingers as he turned and 
hastened to Dobe’s stall. He led Dobe out 
to the stable floor, got his saddle from the 
office, told the sleepy stableman that he was 
going to take a little ride, and saddled Dobe. 
And he led Dobe back to where Joshua was 
tied. He had forgotten his victim on the floor, 
for a moment, but was aware of him when he 


THAT MESCAL 


189 


stumbled over him in the dark. The other 
mumbled and struggled faintly. 

‘T left your gun in the wagon-box,” said 
Bartley. ‘T wouldn’t move around much, if 
I were you. One of the horses might step on 
your face and hurt his foot.” 

, Mr. Hull was not pleased at this, and he 
said as much. Bartley tied Dobe to the back of 
the wagon. 

“Just keep your eye on the horses a minute,” 
he told Hull. “I’ll be back soon.” 

Bartley felt unusually and inexplicably elated. 
He had not realized the extreme potency of 
mescal. The proprietor of the hotel was mildly 
surprised when Bartley, remarking that he had 
been called away unexpectedly, paid the hotel 
bill. Bartley hastened back to the stable. 
Across the way the horses of the mountain men 
drowsed in the faint lamplight. Turning, 
Bartley saw Joshua and Dobe dimly silhouetted 
in the opening at the far end of the stable. 
Cheyenne was still in the saloon. 

Bartley grinned. “It might help,” he said 
as he stepped across the street. Taking down 
the rope from the nearest horse, he tied the 
end of the rope in the horse’s bridle and threaded 
the end through the bridles of all five horses. 


190 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


tying the loose end to the last horse’s bridle^ 
‘‘Just like stringing fish!” he murmured soul- 
fully. “When those gentlemen from the in¬ 
terior try to mount, there’ll be something doing.” 

He had just turned to walk back to the 
stable when he heard a shot, and the lighted 
doorway of the saloon became suddenly dark. 
Without waiting to see what would happen next, 
Bartley ran to the rear of the stable and untied 
the horses. Behind him he heard the quick 
trample of feet. He turned. A figure appeared 
in the front doorway of the stable, a figure that 
dashed toward him, and, with a leap and a 
swing, mounted Joshua and spurred out and 
down the alley back of the building. 

Bartley grabbed for his own stirrup, missed 
it, grabbed again and swung up. Dobe leaped 
after the other horse, turned at the end of the 
alley, and, reaching into a long, swinging gallop, 
pounded across the night-black open. San 
Andreas had but one street. The backs of its 
buildings opened to space. 

Ahead, Cheyenne thundered across a narrow 
bridge over an arroyo. Dobe lifted and leaped 
forward, as though in a race. From behind 
came the quick patter of hoofs. One of Sneed’s 
men had evidently managed to get his horse 


THAT MESCAL 


191 


loose from the reata. A solitary house, far out 
on the level, flickered past. Bartley glanced 
back. The house door opened. A ray of yellow 
light shot across the road. 

‘‘Hey, Cheyenne r’ called Bartley. 

But Cheyenne’s little buckskin was drum¬ 
ming down the night road at a pace that aston¬ 
ished the Easterner. Dobe seemed to be doing 
his best, yet he could not overtake the buckskin. 
Behind Bartley the patter of hoofs sounded 
nearer. Bartley thought he heard Cheyenne 
call back to him. He leaned forward, but the 
drumming of hoofs deadened all other sound. 

They were on a road, now—a road that 
ran south across the spaces, unwinding itself 
like a tape flung from a reel. Suddenly Chey¬ 
enne pulled to a stop. Bartley raced up, bracing 
himself as the big cow-horse set up in two 
jumps. 

“I thought you was abidin’ in San Andreas,” 
said Cheyenne. 

“There’s some one coming!” warned Bart¬ 
ley, breathing heavily. 

“And his name is Filaree,” declared Chey¬ 
enne. “You sure done a good job. Let’s keep 
movin’.” And Cheyenne let Joshua out as 
Filaree drew alongside and nickered shrilly. 


192 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


“Now I reckon we better hold ’em in a little,” 
said Cheyenne after they had gone, perhaps, a 
half-mile. “We got a good start.” 

They slowed the horses to a trot. Filaree 
kept close to Joshua’s flank. A gust of warm 
air struck their faces. 

“Ain’t got time to shake hands, pardner,” 
said Cheyenne. “Know where you’re goin’.^” 

“South,” said Bartley. 

“Correc’. And I don’t hear no bosses behind 
us.” 

“I strung them together on a rope,” said 
Bartley. 

“How’s that.^” 

“I tied Sneed’s horses together, with a rope. 
Ban it through the bridles—^like stringing flsh. 
Not according to Hoyle, but it seems to have 
worked.” 

Cheyenne shook his head. He did not quite 
get the significance of Bartley’s statement. 

“Any one get hurt?” queried Bartley pres¬ 
ently. 

“Nope. I spoiled a lamp, and I reckon I hit 
somebody on the head, in the dark, cornin’ 
through. Seems like I stepped on somethin’ 
soft, out there back of the barn. It grunted 
like a human. But I didn’t stop to look.” 


THAT MESCAL 


193 


‘T had to do it/’ declared Bartley am¬ 
biguously. 

“Had to do what?” 

“Punch a fellow that wanted to know what 
I was doing with your horse. I let him have 
it twice.” 

“Then you didn’t hit him with your gun?” 

“No. I wish I had. I’ve got a fist like a 
boiled ham. I can feel it swell, right now.” 

“That there mescal is sure pow’ful stuff.” 

“Thanks!” said Bartley succinctly. 

“Got a kick like white lightin’,” said Chey¬ 
enne. 

“And I paid our hotel bill,” continued Bart¬ 
ley. 

“Well, that was mighty thoughtful. I plumb 
forgot it.” 


CHAPTER XVIII 

JOE SCOTT 


Just before daybreak Cheyenne turned from 
the road and picked his way through the scat¬ 
tered brush to a gulch in the western foothills. 
Cheyenne’s horses seemed to know the place, 
when they stopped at a narrow, pole gate 
across the upper end of the gulch, for on beyond 
the gate the horses again stopped of their own 
accord. Bartley could barely discern the out¬ 
lines of a cabin. Cheyenne hallooed. 

A muffled answer from the cabin, then a 
twinkle of light, then the open doorway framing 
a gigantic figure. 

^‘That you. Shy?” queried the figure. 

“Me and a friend.” 

“You’re kind of early,” rumbled the figure as 
the riders dismounted. 

“Shucks! You’d be gettin’ up, anyway, right 
soon. We come early so as not to delay your 
breakfast.” 

In the cabin, Cheyenne and the big man 
shook hands. Bartley was introduced. The 
man was a miner, named Joe Scott. 


JOE SCOTT 


195 


“Joe, here, is a minin’ man — when he ain’t 
runnin’ a all-night lunch-stand,” explained Chey¬ 
enne. “He can’t work his placer when it’s dark, 
but he sure can work a skillet and a coffee-mill.” 

“What you been up to?” queried the giant 
slowly, as he made a fire in the stove, and set 
about getting breakfast. 

“Up to Clubfoot Sneed’s place, to get a couple 
of bosses that belonged to me. He was kind of 
hostile. Followed us down to San Andreas 
and done spoiled our night’s rest. But I got 
the bosses.” 

“Hosses seems to be his failin’,” said the 
big man. 

“So some folks say. I’m one of ’em.” 

“How are the folks up Antelope way?” 

“Kinda permanent, as usual. I hear Pan¬ 
handle’s drifted south again. Wishful, he 
shoots craps, reg’lar.” 

Scott nodded, shifted the coffee-pot and sat 
down on the edge of his bunk. “Got any smok¬ 
in’?” he queried presently. 

Bartley offered the miner a cigar. “I’m 
afraid it’s broken,” apologized Bartley. 

“That’s all right. I was goin’ to town this 
mornin’, to get some tobacco and grub. But 
this will help.” And doubling the cigar Scott 


196 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


thrust it in his mouth and chewed it with evi¬ 
dent satisfaction. 

The gray edge of dawn crept into the 
room. Scott blew out the light and opened the 
door. 

Bartley felt suddenly sleepy and he drowsed 
and nodded, realizing that Scott and Cheyenne 
were talking, and that the faint aroma of coffee 
drifted toward him, mingling with the chill, fresh 
air of morning. He pulled himself together and 
drank the coffee and ate some bacon. From 
time to time he glanced at Scott, fascinated by 
the miner’s tremendous forearms, his mighty 
chest and shoulders. Even Cheyenne, who was a 
fair-sized man, appeared like a boy beside the 
miner. Bartley wondered that such tremendous 
strength should be isolated, hidden back there 
behind the foothills. Yet Scott himself, easy¬ 
going and dryly humorous, was evidently con¬ 
tent right where he was. 

Later the miner showed Bartley about the 
diggings, quietly proud of his establishment, and 
enthusiastic about the unfailing supply of water 
—^in fact, Scott talked more about water than 
he did about gold. Bartley realized that the 
big miner would have been a misfit in town, that 
he belonged in the rugged hills from which he 


JOE SCOTT 


197 


wrested a scant six dollars a day by herculean 
toil. 

In a past age, Scott would have been a master 
builder of castles or of triremes or a maker of 
armor, but never a fighting man. It was evident 
that the miner was, despite his great strength, a 
man of peace. Bartley rather regretted, for 
some romantic reason or other, that the big 
miner was not a fighting man. 

Yet when they returned to the shack, where 
Cheyenne sat smoking, Bartley learned that Big 
Joe Scott had a reputation in his own country. 
That was when Scott suggested that they needed 
sleep. He spread a blanket-roll on the cabin 
floor for Cheyenne and offered Bartley his bunk. 
Then Scott picked up his rifle and strode across 
to a shed. Cheyenne pulled off his boots, 
stretched out on the blanket-roll, and sighed 
comfortably. Bartley could see the big miner 
busily twisting something in his hands, some¬ 
thing that looked like a leather bag from which 
occasional tiny spurts of silver gleamed and 
trickled. Bartley wondered what Scott was 
doing. He asked Cheyenne. 

"‘He’s squeezin’ "quick.’ ” And Cheyenne 
explained the process of squeezing quicksilver 
through a chamois skin. ""And I’m glad it ain’t 


198 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


my neck,’’ added Cheyenne. ‘‘Joe killed a man, 
with his bare hands, onct. That’s why he never 
gets in a fight, nowadays. He dassn’t. ’Course, 
he had to kill that man, or get killed.” 

“I noticed he picked up his rifle,” said Bartley. 

“Nobody’ll disturb our sleep,” said Cheyenne 
drowsily. 

The afternoon shadows were long when Bart¬ 
ley awakened. Through the doorway he could 
see Cheyenne out in the shed, talking with Joe 
Scott. 

“Hello!” called Bartley, sitting up. “Lost 
any horses, Cheyenne.^” 

Presently Scott and Cheyenne came over to 
the cabin. 

“I’m cook, this trip,” stated Cheyenne as he 
bustled about the kitchen. “I reckon Joe needs 
a rest. He ain’t lookin’ right strong.” 

An early supper, and the three men for¬ 
gathered outside the cabin and smoked and 
talked until long after dark. Cheyenne had 
told Scott of the happenings since leaving 
Antelope, and jokingly he referred to San 
Andreas and Bartley’s original plan of staying 
there awhile. 

Bartley nodded. “And now that the smoke 


JOE SCOTT 


199 


has blown away, I think I’ll go back and finish 
my visit,” he said. 

Cheyenne’s face expressed surprise and dis¬ 
appointment. ‘Tionest?” he queried. 

“Why not?” asked Bartley, and it was a hard 
question to answer. 

After ail, Bartley had stuck to him when 
trouble seemed inevitable, reasoned Cheyenne. 
Now the Easterner felt free to do as he pleased. 
And why shouldn’t he? There had been no 
definite or even tentative agreement as to 
when they would dissolve partnership. And 
Bartley’s evident determination to carry out 
his original plan struck Cheyenne as indica¬ 
tive of considerable spirit. It was plain that 
Sneed’s unexpected presence in San Andreas 
had not affected Bartley very much. With 
a tinge of malice, born of disappointment, 
Cheyenne suggested to Bartley that the 
man he had knocked out, back of the 
livery barn, would no doubt be glad to see 
him again. 

Bartley turned to Joe Scott. “He’s trying to 
‘Out-West’ me a bit, isn’t he?” 

Scott laughed heartily. “Cheyenne is getting 
tired of rambling up and down the country 
alone. He wants a pardner. Seems he likes your 


200 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


company, from what he says. But you can’t 
take him serious. He’ll be singin’ that ever- 
lastin’ trail song of his next.” 

‘‘He hasn’t sung much, recently.” 

Cheyenne bridled and snorted like a colt. 
“Huh! Just try this on your piano.” And 
seemingly improvising, he waved his arm to¬ 
ward the burro corral. 

One time I had a right good pal. 

Git along, cayuse, git along; 

But he quit me cold for a little ranch gal. 

Git along, cayuse, git along. 

And now he’s took to pitchin’ hay 

On a rancho down San Andreas way; 

He’s done tied up and he’s got to stay; 

Git along, cayuse, git along. 

“I was just learnin’ him the ropes, and he 
quit me cold,” complained Cheyenne, appealing 
to Scott. 

“He aims to keep out of trouble,” suggested 
Scott. 

“I ain’t got no friends,” said Cheyenne, grin¬ 
ning. 

“Thanks for that,” said Scott. 


JOE SCOTT 


201 


Cheyenne reached in his pocket and drew out 
the dice. His eyes brightened. He rattled the 
dice and shot them across the hardpacked 
ground near the doorstep. Then he struck a 
match to see what he had thrown. ‘T’m hittin’ 
the road five minutes after six, to-morrow 
mornin’,” he declared, as he picked up the dice. 


CHAPTER XIX 


DORRY COMES TO TOWN 

At six, next morning, Bartley and Scott were 
on their way to San Andreas, Bartley riding 
Dobe and Scott hazing two pack-burros. They 
took a hill trail, which, Scott explained, was 
shorter by miles than the valley road which 
Cheyenne and Bartley had taken to the gulch. 
Cheyenne was forced to stay at the miner’s 
cabin until Scott returned with the pack-saddle 
and outfit left in the livery. Scott was after 
supplies and tobacco. 

At first Cheyenne had thought of going along 
with them. But he reconsidered. He did not 
care to risk being arrested in San Andreas for 
having disturbed the peace. If the authorities 
should happen to detain him, there would be one 
broken head, one broken lamp, and possibly five 
Dr six witnesses as evidence that he had been the 
aggressor in the saloon. Sneed and his men 
would swear to anything, and the owner of the 
saloon would add his bit of evidence. Bartley 
himself was liable to arrest for assault and bat- 


DORRY COMES TO TOWN 


203 


tery should Hull lodge a complaint against him. 
Incidentally, Hull had been found by the stable¬ 
man, curiously roped and tied and his lower jaw 
somewhat out of plumb. 

Bartley and Scott arrived in San Andreas 
about noon, saw to their stock and had dinner 
together. Bartley engaged a room at the hotel. 
Scott bought supplies. Then, unknown to 
Bartley, Scott hunted up the town marshal and 
told him that the Easterner was a friend of his. 
The town marshal took the hint. Scott 
assured the marshal that, if Sneed or his men 
made any trouble in San Andreas, he would 
gladly come over and help the marshal estab¬ 
lish peace. Cheyenne’s name was not men¬ 
tioned. 

An hour later Scott appeared in front of the 
hotel with his burros packed. Bartley, loafing 
on the veranda, rose and stepped out. 

‘Tf you got time,” said Scott, “you might 
walk along with me, out to the edge of town.” 

Bartley wondered what Scott had in mind,, 
but he agreed to the suggestion at once. 

Together they trudged through the sleepy 
town until they reached the open. 

^T guess you can find your way back,” said 
Scott, his eyes twinkling. “And, say, it’s a good 


S04 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


idea not to pack a sliootin’-iron—and let folks 
know you don’t pack one.” 

“I think I understand,” said Bartley. 

“Ride over to my camp, any time, and if I’m 
not there, just make yourself to home.” And 
the big miner turned and started his burros to¬ 
ward the hills. 

“Give my regards to Cheyenne,” called 
Bartley. 

The miner nodded. 

On his way back through town, Bartley 
wondered why the miner had asked him to take 
that walk. Then suddenly he thought of a 
reason. They had been seen in San Andreas, 
walking and talking together. That would in¬ 
timate that they were friends. And a man 
would have to be blind, not to realize that it 
would be a mistake to pick a quarrel with Scott, 
or one of his friends. Joe Scott never quarreled; 
but he had the reputation of being a man of 
whom it was safe to step around. 

With his sleeves rolled up, sitting in the quiet 
of his room, Bartley spent the afternoon jotting 
down notes for a story. He thought he had ex¬ 
perienced enough adventure to make a good be¬ 
ginning. Of course, the love element was lack¬ 
ing, yet he thought that might be supplied. 


DORRY COMES TO TOWN 


205 


later. He had a heroine in mind. Bartley laid 
down his pencil, and sat back, shaping day¬ 
dreams. It was hot in the room. It would be 
cooler down on the veranda. Well, he would 
finish his rough sketch of Cheyenne, and then 
step down to the veranda. He caught himself 
drowsing over his work. He sat up, scribbled 
a while, nodded sleepily, and, finally, with his 
head on his arms, he fell asleep. 

The rattle of wagon wheels wakened him. A 
ranch team had just pulled up to the hitch-rail 
in front of the hotel and a small boy was tying 
the horses. The boy’s hat seemed familiar to 
Bartley. Then Bartley heard a voice. Sud¬ 
denly he was wide awake. Little Jim was down 
there, talking to some one. Bartley rose and 
peered down. Little Jim’s companion was 
Dorothy. Bartley could not see her face, be¬ 
cause of her wide hat-brim. Stepping back 
into the room, Bartley picked up his pencil and, 
leaning out of tlie window, started it rolling 
down the gentle slope of the veranda roof. It 
dropped at Dorothy’s feet. She started and 
glanced up. Bartley waved a greeting and dis¬ 
appeared from the window. 

Decently clothed, and, imagining that he was 
in his right mind, he hastened downstairs. 


206 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


Little Jim expressed no surprise at seeing 
Bartley, but the youngster’s eyes were eager. 
He shook hands, like a grown-up. ‘‘Got that 
twenty-two, yet?” 

“Haven’t seen one, Jimmy. But I won’t 
forget.” 

“There’s a brand-new twenty-two over to 
Hodges’ store, in the window,” declared Little 
Jim. 

“That so? Then we’ll have to walk over and 
look at it.” 

“I done looked at it already,” said Little Jim. 

“Well, then, let’s go and price it.” 

“I done priced it. It’s twelve-fifty.” 

“Well, what do you say to going over and 
buying it?” 

“Sure! Is dad gone?” 

“Yes. He left here last night. I thought 
Miss Gray was with you,” said Bartley. 

“Sure! She had to come to town to buy some 
things. She’s over to Hodges’ now.” 

Dorothy had not waited for him to appear. 
Bartley was a bit piqued. But he asked himself 
why should he be? They were the merest 
acquaintances. True, they had spent several 
hours together, reading and discussing verse. 
But no doubt that had been purely impersonal, 


DORRY COMES TO TOWN 


207 


on her part. With Little Jim as his guide, 
Bartley entered Hodges’ general store. Dorothy 
was at the back of the store making purchases. 
Bartley watched her a moment. He felt a tug 
at his sleeve. 

“The guns is over on this side,” declared Little 
Jim. 

“We’ll have to wait until Mr. Hodges gets 
through waiting on Miss Gray,” said Bartley. 

Little Jim scampered across the aisle and 
stood on tiptoe peering into a showcase. There 
were pistols, cheap watches, and a pair of spurs. 

Little Jim gazed a moment and then shot over 
to Dorothy. “Say, Dorry, can’t you hurry up? 
Me and Mr. Bartley are waitin’ to look at that 
twenty-two in the window.” 

“Now, Jimmy! Oh, how do you do!” And 
Dorothy greeted Bartley with considerable poise 
for a young woman who was as interested in the 
Easterner as she was. 

“Don’t let us interrupt you,” said Bartley. 
“Our business can wait.” 

Little Jim scowled, and grimaced at Dorothy, 
who excused herself to Bartley and went on 
making her purchases. They were really in¬ 
significant purchases—some pins, some thread, 
and a roll of binding tape. Insignificant as they 


208 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


were, Bartley offered to carry them to the wagon 
for her. Dorothy declined his offer and took 
them to the wagon herself. 

"‘Now for that rifle/’ said Bartley. 

Little Jim, itching all over to get hold of that 
new and shining weapon, squirmed as Hodges 
took it from the window and handed it to Bart¬ 
ley. Bartley examined it and passed it over to 
Little Jim. 

“Is that the kind you wanted?” he asked. 

“This is her! Twenty-two, long or short, 
genu wine repeater.” Jimmy pretended to read 
the tags tied to the trigger guard.“Yep! This 
is her.” 

“And some cartridges,” suggested Bartley. 

“How many?” queried the storekeeper. 

“All you got,” said Little Jim. 

But Bartley’s good nature was not to be im¬ 
posed upon to that extent. “Give us five boxes, 
Mr. Hodges.” 

“That cleans me out of twenty-twos,” de¬ 
clared Hodges. 

Jimmy grinned triumphantly. Dorothy had 
come in and was viewing the purchase with some 
apprehension. She knew Little Jim. 

Bearing the rifle proudly, Jimmy marched 
from the store. Dorothy and Bartley followed 


DORRY COMES TO TOWN 


him, and Bartley briefly outlined Cheyenne’s 
recent sprightly exodus from San Andreas. 

‘T heard about it, from Mr. Hodges,” said 
Dorothy. ‘‘And I also noticed that you have 
hurt your hand.” 

Bartley glanced at his right hand—and then 
at Dorothy, who was gazing at him curiously. It 
had become common news in town that Chey¬ 
enne Hastings and the Easterner had engaged in 
a free-for-all fight with the Sneed outfit, and 
that two of the Sneed boys were laid up for 
repairs. That was Mr. Hodges’ version. 

‘T also heard that you had left town,” said 
Dorothy. 

Bartley’s egoism was slightly deflated. Then 
Dorothy had come to town to buy a few 
trinkets, and not to find out how it fared with 
him. 

“We have to get back before dark,” she 
declared. 

“And you got to drive,” said Little Jim. “I 
want to try my new gun!” 

“Did you thank Mr. Bartley for the gun?” 

Little Jim admitted that he had forgotten to 
do so. He stuck out his small hand. “Thanks, 
pardner,” he said heartily. 

Bartley laughed and patted Jimmy’s shoulder 


210 


PAKTNERS OF CHANCE 


-—something that Jimmy utterly detested, but 
suffered nobly, under the circumstances. 

“You earned that gun—and thank you for 
fetching Miss Dorry to town.” 

“Huh! I didn’t fetch her. She fetched me. 
Uncle Frank was cornin’, but Dorry said she 
just had to get some things—” 

“Jimmy, please don’t point that gun at the 
horses.” 

Bartley felt better. He didn’t know just why 
he felt better. Yet he felt more than grateful 
to Little Jim. 

Nevertheless, Dorothy met Bartley’s eyes 
frankly as he said farewell. “I hope you will 
find time to ride over to the ranch,” she said. 
“I’m sure Aunt Jane would be glad to see you.” 

“Thanks. Say, day after to-morrow 

“Oh, it doesn’t matter. Aunt Jane is nearly 
always at home.” 

“And I got lots of ca’tridges,” chirruped Little 
Jim. “We can shoot all day.” 

“I wouldn’t miss such an opportunity for any¬ 
thing,” declared Bartley, yet he was looking at 
Dorothy when he spoke. 


CHAPTER XX 

ALONG THE FOOTHILLS 

Bartley, enjoying his after-dinner smoke, felt 
that he wanted to know more about the girl who 
had invited him to call at the Lawrence ranch 
again. He told himself that he wanted to study 
her; to find out her preferences, her ideals, her 
attitude toward life, and how the thought of 
always living in the San Andreas Valley, shut 
away from the world, appealed to her. 

With the unconscious intolerance of the city- 
bred man, he did not realize that her world was 
quite as interesting to her as his world was to 
him. Manlike, he also failed to realize that 
Dorothy was studying him quite as much as he 
was studying her. While he did not feel in the 
least superior, he did feel that he was more 
worldly-wise than this young woman whose hori¬ 
zon was bounded by the hills edging the San 
Andreas Valley. 

True, she seemed to have read much, for one 
as isolated as she, and she had evidently appre¬ 
ciated what she had read. And then there was 
something about her that interested him, aside 


212 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


from her good looks. He had known many girls 
far more beautiful. It was not her manner, 
which was a bit constrained, at times. Her 
charm for him was indefinable. Somehow, she 
seemed different from other girls he had met. 
Bartley was himself responsible for this romantic 
hallucination. He saw her with eyes hungry for 
the sympathetic companionship of youth, espe¬ 
cially feminine youth, for he could talk with her 
seriously about things which the genial Chey¬ 
enne could hardly appreciate. 

In other words, Bartley, whose aim was to 
isolate himself from convention, was uncon¬ 
sciously hungry for the very conventions he 
thought he was fleeing from. And in a measure, 
Dorothy Gray represented the life he had left 
behind. Had she been a boy, Bartley would 
have enjoyed talking with her—or him; but she 
was a girl, and, concluded Bartley, just the type 
of girl for the heroine of a Western romance. 
Bartley’s egoism would not allow him to admit 
that their tentative friendship could become any¬ 
thing more than friendship. And it was upon 
that understanding with himself that he saddled 
up, next morning,—why the hurry, with a week 
to spend in San Andreas,—and set out for the 
Lawrence ranch, to call on Aunt Jane. 


ALONG THE FOOTHILLS 


213 


Purposely he timed his arrival to follow the 
dinner hour^—dinner was at noon in the ranch 
country—^and was mildly lectured by Aunt Jane 
for not arriving earlier. Uncle Frank was at the 
lower end of the ranch, superintending the irri¬ 
gating. Little Jim was on the veranda, need¬ 
lessly cleaning his new rifle, preparatory to a 
rabbit hunt that afternoon. Bartley was at 
once invited to participate in the hunt, and he 
could think of no reason to decline. Dorothy, 
however, was not at the ranch. 

Little Jim scrubbed his rifle with an oily rag, 
and scowled. ‘‘Got both bosses saddled, and 
lots of ca’tridges^—^and Dorry ain’t here yet! 
She promised to be here right after dinner.” 

“Was Miss Dorry going with you?” 

Jimmy nodded. “You bet! She’s goin* to 
take my old twenty-two. It’s only a single¬ 
shot,” added Jimmy scornfully. “But it’s good 
enough for a girl.” 

“Isn’t it early to hunt rabbits?” queried 
Bartley. 

“Sure! But we got to get there, clear over to 
the flats. If Dorry don’t come as soon as I get 
this gun cleaned, I’m goin’ anyhow.” 

But Dorothy appeared before Jimmy could 
carry out his threat of leaving without her. 


214 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


Jimmy, mounted on his pony, fretted to be gone, 
while Dorothy chatted a minute or so with Aunt 
Jane and Bartley. Finally they rode off, with 
Jimmy in the lead, explaining that there would 
be no rabbits on the flat until at least five 
o’clock, and in the meantime they would ride 
over to the spring and pretend they were 
starving. That is, Dorothy and Bartley were to 
pretend they were starving, while Jimmy 
scouted for meat and incidentally shot a couple 
of Indians and returned with a noble buck deer 
hanging across the saddle. 

It was hot and they rode slowly. Far ahead, 
in the dim southern distances, lay the hills that 
walled the San Andreas Valley from the desert. 

Dorothy noticed that Bartley gazed intently 
at those hills. ‘‘Cheyenne?” she queried, smiling. 

‘T beg your pardon. I was dreaming. Yes, 
I was thinking of him, and—” Bartley gestured 
toward Little Jim. 

“Then you know?” 

“Cheyenne told me, night before last, in San 
Andreas.” 

“Of course, Jimmy is far better off right where 
he is,” asserted Dorothy, although Bartley had 
said nothing. “I don’t think Cheyenne will 
ever settle down. At least, not so long as that 


ALONG THE FOOTHILLS 


215 


man Sears is alive. Of course, if anything hap¬ 
pens to Sears^—” 

Dorothy was interrupted by Little Jim, who 
turned in the saddle to address her. ‘^Say, 
Dorry, if you keep on talkin’ out loud, the Injuns 
is like to jump us! Scoutin’ parties don’t keep 
talkin’ when they’re on the trail.” 

^‘Don’t be silly, Jimmy,” laughed Dorothy. 

‘‘Well, they used to be Injuns in these hills, 
once.” 

“We’ll behave,” said Bartley. “But can’t we 
ride toward the foothills and get in the shade.?” 

“You just follow me,” said Little Jim. “I 
know this country.” 

It was Little Jim’s day. It was his hunt. 
Dorothy and Bartley were merely his guests. 
He had allowed them to come with him—pos¬ 
sibly because he wanted an audience. Pres¬ 
ently Little Jim reined his horse to the left and 
rode up a dim trail among the boulders. By an 
exceedingly devious route he led the way to the 
spring, meanwhile playing the scout with intense 
concentration on some cattle tracks which were 
at least a month old. Bartley recognized the 
spot. Cheyenne and he had camped there upon 
their quest for the stolen horses. Little Jim 
assured his charges that all was safe, and he 


216 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


suggested that they “light down and rest a 
spell.’’ 

The contrasting coolness of the shade was in¬ 
viting. Jimmy explained that there would be 
no rabbits visible until toward evening. Below 
and beyond them stretched the valley floor, 
shimmering in the sun. Behind them the hills 
rose and dipped, rose and dipped again, finally 
reaching up to the long slope of the mother range. 
Far above a thin, dark line of timber showed 
against the eastern sky. 

“Ole Clubfoot Sneed lives up there,” asserted 
Jimmy, pointing toward the distant ridge. ‘T 
been up there.” 

“Yes. And your father saved you from a 
whipping. Uncle Frank was very angry.” 

“I got that new rifle, anyhow,” declared 
Little Jim. 

“And they lived happily ever afterward,” said 
Bartley. 

“Huh! That’s just like them fairy stories 
that Dorry reads to me sometimes. I like stories 
about Buffalo Bill and Injuns and fights. Fairy 
stories make me tired.” 

“Jimmy thinks he is quite grown up,” teased 
Dorothy. 

“You ain’t growed up yourself, anyhow,” re- 


ALONG THE FOOTHHXS 


217 


torted Jimmy. “Girls ain’t growed up till they 
git married.” 

Dorothy turned to Bartley and began to talk 
about books and writers. Little Jim frowned. 
Why couldn’t they talk about something worth 
listening to? Jimmy examined his new rifle, 
sighting it at different objects, and opening and 
closing the empty magazine. Finally he loaded 
it. His companions of the hunt were deep in a 
discussion having to do with Western stories. 
Jimmy fidgeted under the constant stress of 
keeping silent. He would have interrupted 
Dorothy, willingly enough, but Bartley’s pres¬ 
ence rather awed him. 

Jimmy felt that his afternoon was being 
wasted. However, there was the solace of the 
new rifle, and plenty of ammunition. While he 
knew there was no big game in those hills, he 
could pretend that there was. He debated with 
himself as to whether he would hunt deer, bear, 
or mountain lion. Finally he decided he would 
hunt bear. He waited for an opportunity to 
leave without being noticed, and, carrying his 
trusty rifle at the ready, he stealthily disap¬ 
peared in the brush south of the spring. A 
young boy, with a new gun and lots of brush to 
prowl through! Under such circumstances the 


218 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


optimist can imagine anything from rabbits to 
elephants. 

Some time passed before Dorothy missed him. 
She called. There was no reply. ‘‘He won’t go 
far,” she assured Bartley who rose to go and 
look for Jimmy. 

Bartley sat down by the spring again. He 
questioned Dorothy in regard to ranch life, social 
conditions, local ambitions, and the like. Quite 
impersonally she answered him, explaining that 
the folk in the valley were quite content, so long 
as they were moderately successful. Of course, 
the advent of that funny little machine, the 
automobile, would revolutionize ranch life, 
eventually. Why, a wealthy rancher of San 
Andreas had actually driven to Los Angeles and 
back in one of those little machines! 

Bartley smiled. “They’ve come to stay, no 
doubt. But I can’t reconcile automobiles with 
saddle-horses and buckboards. I shan’t have 
an automobile snorting and snuffing through 
my story.” 

“Your story!” 

“I really didn’t mean to speak about it. 
But the cat is out of the bag. I’m making 
notes for a Western novel. Miss Gray. I con¬ 
fess it.” 


ALONG THE FOOTHILLS 


no. 

“Confession usually implies having done some¬ 
thing wrong, doesn’t it?” 

“Yes. But with you as the heroine of my 
story, I couldn’t go very far wrong.” 

Dorothy flushed and bit her lip. So that was 
why Bartley had been so attentive and polite? 
He had been studying her, questioning her, men¬ 
tally jotting down what she had said—^and he 
had not told her, until that moment, that he was 
writing a story. She had not known that he was 
a writer of stories. 

“You might, at least, have asked me if I cared 
to be a Western heroine in your story.” 

“Oh, that would have spoiled it all! Can’t 
you see? You would not have been yourself, if 
you had known. And our visits—” 

“I don’t think I care to be the heroine of your 
story, Mr. Bartley.” 

“You really mean it?” 

Dorothy nodded thoughtfully. Bartley knew, 
intuitively, that she was sincere—‘that she was 
not angling for flattery. He had thought that 
he was rather paying her a compliment in mak¬ 
ing her the heroine of his flrst Western book; or, 
at least, that she would take it as a compliment. 
He frowned, twisting a spear of dry grass in his 
fingers. 


220 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


“Of course—-that needn’t make any difference 
about your calling—^on Aunt Jane.” 

“Thank you,” laughed Bartley. “And be¬ 
cause of the privilege which I really appreciate, 
ITl agree to look for another heroine.” 

Dorothy had not expected just such an answer. 
“In San Andreas?” she queried. 

“I can’t say. I’ll be lucky if I find another, 
anywhere, to compare—” 

“If you had asked me, first,” interrupted 
Dorothy, “I might have said 'yes,' ” 

“I’m sorry I didn’t. Won’t you reconsider?” 

Dorothy shook her head. Then she looked 
up at him frankly, steadily. “I think you took 
me for granted. That is what I didn’t like.” 

“But—I didn’t! It didn’t occur to me to 
really begin my story until after I had seen you. 
Of course I knew I would write a new story 
sooner or later. I hope you will believe that.” 

“Yes. But I think I know why you decided 
to stay in San Andreas, instead of riding south, 
with Cheyenne. Aunt Jane and Little Jim and 
your heroine were within easy riding distance.” 

“I’ll admit I intended to write about Aunt 
Jane and Jimmy. I actually adore Aunt Jane. 
And Little Jim, he’s what one might call an un¬ 
known quantity— 


ALONG THE FOOTHILLS 




“He seems to be, just now.” 

“Oil, he won’t go far,” said Bartley, smiling. 

Dorothy tossed her head. “And Cheyenne—•” 

“Oh, he is the moving figure in the story. 
That is not a pun, if you please. I had no idea 
that Cheyenne could actually hate any one, until 
the other night when he told me about^—^Lara- 
mie, and that man Sears.” 

“Did he talk much about Sears?” 

“Not much—but enough. Frankly, I think 
Cheyenne will kill Sears if he happens to meet 
him again.” 

“And that will furnish the climax for your 
story!” said Dorothy scornfully. 

“Well, if it has to happen—Bartley paused. 

Dorothy’s face was troubled. Finally she 
rose and picked up her gloves and hat. 

“I wish some one or something would stop 
him,” she said slowly. “He liked you. All 
the years he has been riding up and down 
the country he has ridden alone, until 
he met you. I’m sorry ' you didn’t go with 
him.” 

“He did pretend that he was disappointed 
when I told him I was going to stay in San 
Andreas for a while.” 

“You thought he was joking, but he wasn’t. 


^22 PARTNERS OF CHANCE 

We have all tried to get him to settle down; but 
he would not listen. If I were a man— 

‘‘Then you think I could have influenced 
him?” queried Bartley. 

“You might have tried, at least.” 

“Well, he’s gone. And I’ll have to make the 
best of it^—-and also find another heroine,” said 
Bartley lightly, trying to make her smile. 

“I’ll be the heroine of your story, upon one 
condition,” Dorothy said, finally. 

“And that is—•” 

“If you will try and find Cheyenne and—and 
just be a friend to him. I suppose it sounds 
silly, and I would not think of asking you to try 
and keep him from doing anything he decided 
to do. But you might happen to be able to say 
the right word at the right time.” 

“I hardly took myself as seriously as that, in 
connection with Cheyenne,’^ declared Bartley. 
“I suppose, if I should saddle up and ride south 
to-morrow, I might overtake him along the road, 
somewhere. He travels slowly.” 

“But you won’t go, just because I spoke as I 
did?” 

“Not altogether because of that. I like 
Cheyenne.” 

Impetuously Dorothy stepped close to Bart- 


ALONG THE rOOTHn.LS 


22S 


ley and laid her hand on his arm. “I knew you 
were like that! And what does writing about 
people amoimt to, when you can really do some¬ 
thing for them? It isn’t just Cheyenne. There’s 
Little Jim—•” 

‘‘Yes. But where is Little Jim?” 

Dorothy called in her high, clear voice. There 
was no answering halloo. “His horse is there. 
I can’t understand^—” 

“I’ll look around a bit,” said Bartley. “He’s 
probably ambushing us, somewhere, and ex¬ 
pects us to be tremendously surprised.” 

“I’ll catch up my horse,” said Dorothy. 
“No, you had better let me catch him. He 
knows me.” 

And Dorothy stepped from the clearing round 
the spring and walked toward the horses. They 
were grazing quite a ways oflF, up the hillside. 

Bartley recalled having glimpsed Little Jim 
crawling through the brush on the south side of 
the spring. No doubt Jimmy had grown tired 
of waiting, and had dropped down to the mesa on 
foot to hunt rabbits. Once clear of the hillside 
brush, Bartley was able to overlook the mesa 
below. Presently he discerned a black hat 
moving along slowly. Evidently the young 
hunter was stalking game. 


224 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


Bartley hesitated to call out. He doubted 
that Jimmy could hear him at that distance. 
Stepping down the gentle slope of the hillside 
to the road, Bartley watched Jimmy for a while, 
hoping that he would turn and see him. But 
Jimmy was busy. “Might as well go back and 
get the horses and ride over to him,” said 
Bartley. 

He had turned to cross the road, when he 
heard the sound of quick hoof-beats. Surely 
Dorothy had not caught up the horses so soon? 
Bartley turned toward the bend of the road. 
Presently a rider, his worn chaps flapping, his 
shapeless hat pulled low, and his quirt swinging 
at every jump of the horse, pounded up and had 
almost passed Bartley, when he set up his horse 
and dismounted. Bartley did not recognize 
him until he spoke. 

“My name’s Hull. I was lookin’ for you.” 

“All right, Mr. Hull. What do you want?” 

Hull’s gaze traveled up and down the East¬ 
erner. Hull was looking to see if the other 
carried a gun. Bartley expected argument and 
inwardly braced himself. Meanwhile he won¬ 
dered if he could find Hull’s chin again, and as 
easily as he had found it that night back of the 
livery barn. Hull loomed big and heavy, and it 


ALONG THE FOOTHILLS 


225 


was evident from the minute he dismounted that 
he meant business. 

Without a word, Hull swung at Bartley, 
smashing in with right and left, fighting like a 
wild-cat, forcing his weight into the fight, and 
kicking wickedly when he got a chance. Fi¬ 
nally, after taking a straight blow in the face, 
Hull clinched^—^and the minute Bartley felt those 
tough-sinewed arms around him he knew that he 
was in for a licking. 

Bartley’s only chance, and that a pretty slim 
one, lay in getting free from the grip of those 
arms. He used his knee effectively. Hull 
grunted and staggered back. Bartley jumped 
forward and bored in, knocking Hull off his feet. 
The cow-puncher struck the ground, rolled over, 
and was up and coming like a cyclone. It 
flashed through Bartley’s mind that the only 
thing to do was to stay with it till the finish. 
Hull was beating him down slowly, but surely. 

Dully conscious that some one was calling, 
behind him, Bartley struck out, straight and 
clean, but he might as well have tried to stop a 
runaway freight with a whisk-broom. He felt 
the smashing impact of a blow—^then suddenly 
he was on his back in the road—and he had no 
desire to get up. Free from the hammering of 


226 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


those heavy fists, he felt comparatively com¬ 
fortable. 

‘‘You brute!” It was Dorothy’s voice, tense 
with anger. 

Bartley heard another voice, thick with heavy 
breathing. “That’s all right. Miss Gray. But 
the dude had it cornin’.” 

Then Bartley heard the sound of hoof-beats—• 
and somehow or other, Dorothy was helping 
him to his feet. He tried to grin^—^but his lips 
would not obey his will. 

“I’m all right,” he mumbled. 

“Perhaps,” said Dorothy, steady and cool. 
“But you’ll want to wash your face at the spring. 
I fetched your horse.” 

“Lord, Miss Gray, let’s walk. I’m more used 
to it.” 

“It was that man Hull, from the mountain, 
wasn’t it?” 

“I don’t know his name. I did meet him 
once, in San Andreas, after dark.” 

“I’ll just tie the horses, here. It’s not far to 
the spring. Feel dizzy?” 

“A little. But I can walk without help, thank 
you. Little Jim is down there, stalking rabbits.” 

At the spring Bartley knelt and washed the 
blood from his face and felt tenderly of his half- 


ALONG THE FOOTHILLS 


227 


closed eye, twisted his neck round and felt a 
sharp click—and then his head became clearer. 
His light shirt was half-torn from his shoulders, 
and he was scandalously mussed up, to put it 
mildly. He got to his feet and faced Dorothy. 

“There’s a formula for this sort of thing, in 
books,” he said. “Just now I can’t recall it. 
First, however, you say you’re ‘all right,’ if you 
are alive. If you are not, it doesn’t matter. 
Then you say, ‘a mere scratch!’ But I’m cer¬ 
tain of one thing. I never needed a heroine 
more than I did when you arrived.” 

Dorothy smiled in spite of herself. “You 
aren’t pretending, are you? I mean—about 
your condition?” 

“I should say not. My eye is closed. My 
right arm won’t work, and my head feels queer— 
and I am not hungry. But my soul goes march¬ 
ing on.” 

“Then we’ll have to find Jimmy. It’s get¬ 
ting late.” 


CHAPTER XXI 


‘"git along cayuse” 

It was dark when Bartley arrived at his hotel 
in San Andreas. Not caring to parade his black 
eye and his swollen mouth, he took his evening 
meal at a little Mexican restaurant, and then 
went back to his room, where he spent the 
evening adding a few more pertinent notes to his 
story; notes that were fresh in his mind. He 
knew what it felt like to take a good licking. In 
fact, the man is unfortunate who does not. 
Bartley thought he could write effectively upon 
the subject. 

He had found Dorothy’s quiet sympathy 
rather soothing. She had made no fuss what¬ 
ever about the matter. And she had not in¬ 
sisted that he stop at the ranch and get doctored 
up. Little Jim had promptly asked Bartley, 
“Who done it.^” and Bartley had told him. 
Little Jim asked more questions and was silenced 
only by a promise from Dorothy to buy him 
more cartridges. “That is, if you promise not 
to say anything about it to Aunt Jane or Uncle 


GIT ALONG CAYUSE 


Frank/’ she stipulated. Little Jim gravely 
shook hands upon the agreement. Dorothy 
knew that he would keep his word. 

This agreement had been made after Bartley 
had left them. Dorothy had sworn Little Jim 
to silence, not so much on Bartley’s account as 
on her own. Should the news of the fight be¬ 
come public, there would be much bucolic com¬ 
ment, wherein her name would be mentioned 
and the whole affair interpreted to suit the crude 
imaginings of the community. Bartley also 
realized this and, because of it, stuck close to his 
room for two days, meanwhile making copious 
notes for the new story. 

But the making of notes for the story was a 
rather tame occupation compared with the pos¬ 
sibilities of actual adventure on the road. He 
had a good saddle-horse, plenty of optimism, 
and enough money to pay his way wherever he 
chose to go. Incidentally he had a notebook 
and pencil. What more did a man need to make 
life worth while 

And then, somewhere along the southern high¬ 
way Cheyenne was jogging with Filaree and 
Joshua: 

Seems like I don’t git anywhere: 

Git along, cayuse, git along. 


230 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


Bartley rose and stepped to the window. 
San Andreas drowsed in the noon sun. Far to 
the north he could see a dot of fresh green—^the 
cottonwoods of the Lawrence rancho. Again 
he found himself in the grip of indecision. After 
all, a fellow didn’t have to journey up and down 
the land to find material for a story. There was 
plenty of material right where he was. All he 
had to do was to stop, look, and listen. "‘Hang 
the story!” he exclaimed peevishly. “I’ll just 
go out and live —and then write the story.” 

It did not take him long to pack his saddle¬ 
bags, nor to get together the few articles of 
clothing he had had washed by a Mexican 
woman in town. He wrote a brief note to 
Dorothy, stating that he was on his way. He 
paid his hotel bill, stepped round to the livery 
and paid for Dobe’s entertainment, saddled up, 
and, literally shaking the dust of San Andreas 
from his feet, rode down the long trail south, 
headed for Joe Scott’s placer, as his first stop. 

He would spend the night there and then head 
south again. The only living thing that seemed 
interested in Bartley’s exodus was a stray dog 
that seemed determined to follow him. Turning 
from the road, Bartley took the short cut to 
Scott’s placer. Glancing back he saw that the 


GIT ALONG CAYUSE 


231 


dog was still following. Bartley told him to go 
home. The dog, a very ordinary yellow dog, 
didn’t happen to have a home—and he was 
hungry. So he ignored Bartley’s command. 

Whether or not he imagined that Bartley was 
different from the run of townsfolk is a question. 
Possibly he imagined Bartley might give him 
something to eat. In any event, the dog stuck 
to the trail clear up to Scott’s placer. 

Scott was not at the cabin. Bartley hallooed, 
glanced round, and dismounted. On the cabin 
door was a note: ‘‘Gone to Phoenix. J. Scott.” 

Bartley turned from the cabin to find the dog 
gazing up at him mournfully; his expression 
seemed to convey the idea that they were both 
in hard luck. Nobody home and nothing to 
eat. 

“What, you here!” exclaimed Bartley. 

The yellow dog wagged his tail. He was 
young and as yet had some faith in mankind. 

Bartley tied his horse and strode up the trail 
to the workings. Everything had been put in 
order. The dog helped investigate, sniffing at 
the wheelbarrow, the buckets, the empty sacks 
weighted down with rock to keep them from 
blowing away, the row of tools, picks and 
shovels and bars. Evidently the owner of the 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


place was not concealed beneath any of these 
things. 

Meanwhile the afternoon shadows warned 
Bartley that a camp with water and feed was 
the next thing in order. He strode back to the 
cabin. There was no problem to solve, although 
he thought there was. The yellow dog, an old 
campaigner in the open, though young in years, 
solved his problem by a suggestion. He was 
tired. There seemed to be no food in sight. He 
philosophically trotted to the open shed opposite 
the cabin and made a bed for himself in a pile 
of gunny-sacks. Bartley grinned. Why not? 

Experience had taught Bartley to carry some¬ 
thing else, besides a notebook and pencil, in his 
saddle-bags. Hence the crackers and can of 
corned beef came in handy. The mountain 
water was cold and refreshing. There was hay 
in the burro stable. Moreover, Bartley now 
had a happy companion who licked his chops, 
wagged his tail, and grinned as he finished a bit of 
corned beef. Bartley tossed him a cracker. 
The dog caught it and it disappeared. This 
was something like it! Here was a man who 
rode a big horse, didn’t kick stray dogs, and 
even shared a meal with a fellow! Such a man 
was worth following forever. 


GIT ALONG CAYUSE 


233 


“It would seem that you have adopted me,” 
declared Bartley. The dog had shown no in¬ 
clination to leave since being fed. There might 
possibly be another meal coming, later. 

“But what am I going to do with you?” 
queried Bartley, as the dog curled up on the 
pile of gunny-sacks. “You don’t look as though 
you habitually stopped at hotels, and I’ll have 
to, until I catch up with Cheyenne. What’s 
the answer?” 

The yellow dog, all snuggled down in the 
sacks, peered at Bartley with unblinking eyes. 
Bartley laughed. Then he made his own bed 
with gunny-sacks, and after smoking a cigar¬ 
ette, turned in and slept well. 

He did not expect to find the dog there in the 
morning. But the dog was there, most evi¬ 
dently waiting for breakfast, grinning his de¬ 
light at not being cursed or kicked at, and 
frisking round the cabin yard in a mad race 
after nothing in particular, and indicating in 
every way possible that he was the happiest dog 
that ever wagged a tail. 

Crackers and corned beef again, and spring 
water for breakfast. And while Dobe munched 
his hay, Bartley smoked and roughly planned 
his itinerary. He would travel south as far as 


234 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


Phoenix and then swing back again, over the old 
Apache Trail—if he did not overtake Cheyenne. 

If he did overtake him, the plan might be 
changed. It did not matter. He had set out 
to find his erstwhile traveling companion. If he 
found him, they could just as well travel to¬ 
gether. If he did not, Bartley determined to 
see much of the country. In so far as influencing 
Cheyenne in any way^—^that would have to be 
determined by chance. Bartley felt that his 
influence with the sprightly Cheyenne weighed 
very little against Cheyenne’s hatred for Pan¬ 
handle Sears. 

Once more upon the road, with the early 
morning shadows slanting across the valley, 
Bartley felt that it was his own fault if he did 
not enjoy himself. Swinging into an easy trot 
he turned to see if the yellow dog were following 
him. At first Bartley thought the dog had 
shown wisdom and had departed for San An¬ 
dreas, but, happening to glance down on the 
other side of his horse, he saw the dog trotting 
along, close to Dobe’s heels. 

Bartley felt a pity for the dog’s dumb, in¬ 
sistent attachment. Reining in, Bartley told 
the dog he had better go home. For answer the 
dog lay down in the horse’s shadow, his head on 


GIT ALONG CAYUSE 


235 


his paws, and his eyes fixed on Bartley’s face. 
He did not seem to know what the words meant. 
But he did know^—^only pretended he did not. 
His roof tree was the Arizona sky, and his home 
the place where his adopted master camped at 
night. 

“Oh, very well,” said Bartley, smiling in spite 
of himself. 

That noon they stopped at a ranch where 
Bartley had dinner and fed his horse. Chey¬ 
enne had passed that way several days ago, the 
ranch folk told him. It was about twenty miles 
to the next town. Bartley was invited to stop 
by and spend the night, but he declined the in¬ 
vitation, even as they had declined to accept 
money for their hospitality. Meanwhile the 
dog had disappeared. He had not followed 
Bartley into the ranch. And it was some twenty 
minutes or so after Bartley was on the road 
again that he discovered the dog, coming round 
a bend on the run. There was no getting rid of him. 

The dog, who had often been chased from 
ranches by other dogs, had at first waited pa¬ 
tiently for Bartley to appear. Then, as Bart¬ 
ley did not appear, the dog made a short scout 
through the near-by brush. Finally he stirred 
up a rabbit. It was a long, hard chase, but the 


236 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


dog got his dinner. Then, circling, he took up 
Bartley’s trail from the ranch, overtaking him 
with grim determination not to lose sight of 
him again. 

Arriving at the town of Stacey early that 
afternoon, Bartley arranged with the local livery¬ 
man for the dog’s keep that night. From that 
night on, the dog never let Dobe out of his sight. 
It was evidently intended that he should sleep 
in stalls and guard Dobe against the approach 
of any one save his master. 

Bartley learned that Cheyenne had passed 
through Stacey headed south. He had stopped 
at the local store to purchase provisions. Esti¬ 
mating roughly, Bartley was making better 
time than had Cheyenne, yet it would be several 
days before he could possibly overtake him. 

Next day Bartley had ridden better than forty 
miles, and that night he stayed at a ranch, where 
he was made welcome. In fact, any one who 
rode a good horse and appeared to be even half¬ 
way civil never suffered for want of a meal or a 
bed in those days. Gasoline has somewhat 
diluted such hospitality, yet there are sections 
of Arizona still unspoiled, where the stranger is 
made to feel that the word “home” has retained 
its ancient and honorable significance. 


CHAPTER XXII 


BOX-S BUSINESS 

A FEW days later, Bartley stopped at a small 
town to have his horse shod. The blacksmith 
seemed unusually interested in the horse and 
complimented Bartley upon owning such a good 
mount. 

“Comes from up San Andreas way,” said the 
smith, noticing the brand on Dobe’s flank. 

“Yes. I picked him up at Antelope. I under¬ 
stand he was raised on Senator Brown’s ranch.” 

“That’s Steve Brown’s brand, all right. 
Heard the news from up that way?” 

“Nothing special.” 

“Seems somebody run off a bunch of Senator 
Steve’s horses, last week. Thought mebby 
you’d heard.” 

“No.” 

“Well, thought I’d just tell you. I seen one 
posse ride through yesterday. They’ll be lookin’ 
for strangers along the road.” 

“Thanks. I bought this horse—and I happen 
to know Senator Brown.” 


238 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


“No offense, stranger. If I’d ’a’ suspicioned 
you’d stole that horse, you wouldn’t take him 
out of here. Like I said to Cheyenne, last week; 
he could fetch a whole carload of stock in here 
and take ’em out again without trouble. He 
was tellin’ me how he lost his horses, and we 
got to talkin’ about some folks bein’ blind when 
they’re facin’ a brand on a critter. Mebby you 
heard tell of Cheyenne Hastings.^” 

“I have traveled with him. You say he 
stopped here a few days ago?” 

“Well, not just stopped; he kind of looked 
in to see how I was gettin’ along. He acted 
queerlike, for him. I’ve knowed Cheyenne for 
years. Said he was feelin’ all right. He ast 
me if I’d seen Panhandle Sears down this way, 
recent. Seemed kind of disappointed when I 
told him no. Cheyenne used to be a right-smart 
man, before he had trouble with that woman 
of his.” 

“Yes? He told me about it,” said Bartley, 
not caring to hear any more of the details of 
Cheyenne’s trouble. 

“’Most everybody knows it,” stated the smith. 
“And if I was Sears I’d sure leave this country.” 

“So should I. I’ve seen Cheyenne handle a 
gun.” 


BOX-S BUSINESS 


239 


“You got the right idea!’’ exclaimed the black¬ 
smith, evidently pleased. “All Cheyenne’s 
friends have been waitin’ for years for him to 
clean that slate and start fresh again. He used 
to be a right-smart hand, before he had 
trouble.” 

The blacksmith accompanied his conversation 
with considerable elbow motion and the rattle 
and clang of shaping horseshoes. Presently 
Dobe was new shod and ready for the road. 
Bartley paid the smith, thanked him for a good 
job, and rode south. Evidently Cheyenne’s 
open quarrel with Sears was the talk of the coun¬ 
tryside. It was expected of Cheyenne that he 
would “clean the slate and start fresh” some 
day. And cleaning the slate meant killing 
Sears. To Bartley it seemed strange that any 
one should be pleased with the idea of one man 
killing another deliberately. 

In speaking of the recent horse-stealing, the 
blacksmith had mentioned no names. But 
Bartley at once drew the conclusion that it had 
been Sneed’s men who had run off the Senator’s 
horses. Sneed was known to be a horse-thief. 
He had never been convicted, although he had 
been arrested and tried several times. It was 
also known that Senator Steve had openly 


240 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


vowed that he would rid the country of Sneed, 
sooner or later. 

Several times, during his journey south, 
Bartley was questioned, but never interfered 
with. Thus far he heard of Cheyenne occa¬ 
sionally, but, nearing Phoenix, he lost track 
of his erstwhile companion. However, he took it 
for granted that Phoenix had been Cheyenne’s 
destination. And Bartley wanted to see the 
town for himself, in any event. 

Cheyenne, arriving in Phoenix, stabled his 
horses at the Top-Notch livery, and took a room 
for himself directly opposite the Hole-in-the- 
Wall gambling-house. He refused to drink with 
the occasional acquaintance he met, not because 
he did not like liquor, but because Colonel 
Stevenson, the city marshal, had told him 
that Panhandle Sears and his friends were in 
town. 

“Why don’t you tell me to go git him.^” 
queried Cheyenne, looking the marshal in the 
eye. 

“I didn’t think it was necessary,” said the 
marshal. 

“What? To git him?” 

The marshal smiled. Then casually: “I 


BOX-S BUSINESS 


241 


hear that Panhandle and his friends are drinking 
heavy and spending considerable money. They 
must have made a strike, somewhere.’’ 

‘T see by the paper somebody run off a bunch 
of the Box-S bosses,” remarked Cheyenne, also 
casually. 

Then, without further comment, he left the 
marshal wondering if Panhandle’s presence in 
town had any connection with the recent run¬ 
ning-off of the Box-S stock. The sheriff of 
Antelope had wired Colonel Stevenson to be on 
the lookout for Bill Sneed and his gang, but had 
not mentioned Panhandle’s name in the tele¬ 
gram. 

The following day. Senator Brown and his 
foreman, Lon Pelly, arrived in Phoenix and 
had a long talk with the marshal. That after¬ 
noon Lon Pelly took the train south. Early in 
the evening Senator Brown received a telegram 
from Pelly stating that Sneed and four men had 
left Tucson, headed north and riding horses. 

The stolen horses had been trailed south as 
far as Phoenix. It was evident that they had 
been driven to Tucson and disposed of some¬ 
where in that vicinity. Yet there was no con¬ 
clusive proof that Sneed had stolen the horses. 
As usual, he had managed to keep a few days 


242 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


ahead of his pursuers. Sneed was known to 
have left his camp in the hills above San Andreas. 
The first posse had found the camp abandoned. 
Sneed had not been identified until Felly got 
track of him in Tucson. 

During his talk with Senator Brown the 
marshal mentioned the fact that Panhandle 
Sears was in Phoenix. 

‘‘Did Panhandle come in from the south 
queried the Senator. 

“Nobody seems to know.” 

“Well, if he did, we have got the link that’s 
missing in this chain, Colonel. Pelly is holdin’ 
one end of the chain down in Tucson, and the 
other end is layin’ right here in Phoenix. If 
we can connect her up^— 

“But we haven’t located the horses. Senator.” 

“Colonel, I’ll find those horses if I can. But 
I’m after Sneed, this journey. He has been 
running things about ten years too long to suit 
me. I’ve got a check-book with me. You have 
the men. I’m out to do a little housecleanin’ of 
my own. If we can get Panhandle to talk, we 
can find out something.” 

“He’s been on a drunk for a week. I could 
run him in for disturbing the peace and—” 

“And he’d suspect what we’re after and 


BOX-S BUSINESS 


243 


freeze up, tight. No, let him run loose, but 
keep your eye on him. He’ll give the deal 
away, sooner or later.” 

“I hope it’s sooner,” said the Colonel. ‘‘Chey¬ 
enne is holed up down the street, waiting for a 
chance to get Sears. Cheyenne didn’t say so, 
but it was in his eye. He’s changed considerable 
since I saw him last.” 

“Was there any one with him: a tall, dark¬ 
haired, kind of clean-cut boy, for instance.^” 

“No, not when I saw him. He rode in with 
his usual outfit.” 

“Wonder where he lost young Bartley? Well, 
I’m glad the boy isn’t here. He might get 
hurt.” 

“Wild?” 

“No. Quiet. Writes stories. He’s out here 
to look at the West. Stayed at the ranch a 
spell. Mrs. Brown likes him.” 

Colonel Stevenson nodded and offered the 
Senator a cigar. “Let’s step over to the hotel, 
Steve. It’s a long time since— 

That evening Bartley arrived in Phoenix, put 
up his horse, and, upon inquiry, learned that 
the Grand Central was the best hotel in town. 
He was registering when he noticed Senator 


244 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


Brown’s name. He made inquiry of the clerk. 
Yes, the Senator had arrived that morning. 
And would Mr. Bartley prefer a front room? 
The front rooms on the north side were cooler. 
No, the clerk knew nothing about a Mr. Chey¬ 
enne. There was no one by that name registered 
at the hotel. It was past the regular dinner 
hour, but the dining-room was not yet closed. 
There was a men’s furnishings store just across 
the street. They carried a complete stock. And 
did Mr. Bartley wish to be called at any special 
hour in the morning? Breakfast was served 
from six-thirty to nine-thirty. 

Bartley had dinner, and later strolled around 
to the Top-Notch livery to see that Dobe was 
being well cared for. While talking with the 
stableman, Bartley noticed a gray pony and in 
the next stall a buckskin—Cheyenne’s horses. 

“Those are Cheyenne’s horses, aren’t they?” 
he queried. 

“I dunno. Mebby that’s his name. He left 
’em here a few days ago. I only seen him once, 
since then.” 

“I’ll be around in the morning. If a man 
called Cheyenne should happen to come in, 
just tell him that Bartley is stopping at the 
Grand Central.” 


1 


BOX-S BUSINESS 


245 


‘‘I’ll tell him, all right,” said the stableman. 

And as soon as Bartley was out of sight, that 
worthy called up the city marshal and told him 
that a stranger had ridden in and stabled a horse 
bearing the Box-S brand. A big reward had 
been offered for the stolen horses. 

At the hotel Bartley learned that Senator 
Brown had gone out for the evening. Tired 
from his long ride, Bartley went to his room. 
Senator Steve and Cheyenne were in town. 
Bartley recalled the blacksmith’s talk about 
the stolen horses. No doubt that accounted for 
Senator Steve’s presence in Phoenix. As for 
Cheyenne—^Bartley decided to hunt him up in 
the morning. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


THE HOLE-IN-THE-WALL 

Panhandle Sears, in a back room in the Hole- 
in-the-Wall, was ugly drunk. The Hole-in-the- 
Wall had the reputation of running a straight 
game. Whether or not the game was straight. 
Panhandle had managed to drop his share of 
the money from the sale of the Box-S horses. 
He had had nothing to do with the actual steal¬ 
ing of them, but he had, with the assistance of 
his Mexican companion Posmo, engineered the 
sale to a rancher living out of Tucson. It was 
understood that the horses would find their way 
across the border. 

Now Panhandle was broke again. He stated 
that unpleasant fact to his companions, Posmo 
and Shorty,—^the latter a town loafer he had 
picked up in Antelope. Shorty had nothing to 
say. Panhandle’s drunken aggressiveness cowed 
him. But Posmo, who had really found the 
market for the stolen stock, felt that he had 
been cheated. Panhandle had promised him 
a third of his share of the money. Panhandle 


THE HOLE-IN-THE-WALL 


had kept on promising from day to day, liquidat¬ 
ing his promises with whiskey. And now there 
was no money. 

Posmo knew Panhandle well enough not to 
press the matter, just then. But Panhandle, 
because neither of his companions had said any¬ 
thing when told that he was broke, turned on 
Posmo. 

“What you got to say about it, anyway?’^ 
he asked with that curious stubbornness born 
in liquor. 

“I say that you owe me a hundred dollar,” 
declared Posmo. 

“Well, go ahead and collect!” 

“Yes, go ahead and collect,” said Shorty, 
suddenly siding with Panhandle. “We blowed 
her in. We’re broke, but we ain’t cryin’ about 
it.” 

“That is all right,” said Posmo quietly. 
“If the money is gone, she is gone; yes?” 

“That’s the way to say it!” asserted Pan¬ 
handle, changing front and slapping Posmo on 
the shoulder. “We’re broke, and who the hell 
cares?” 

“Let’s have a drink,” suggested Shorty. 
“I got a couple of beans left.” 

They slouched out from the back room and 


248 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


stood at the bar. Panhandle immediately be¬ 
came engaged in noisy argument with one of 
the frequenters of the place. Senator Brown’s 
name was mentioned by the other, but men¬ 
tioned casually, with no reference whatever to 
stolen horses. 

Panhandle laughed. “So old Steve is down 
here lookin’ for his bosses, eh?” 

“What horses?” 

The question, spoken by no one knew whom, 
chilled the group to silence. 

Panhandle saw that he had made a blunder. 
“Who wants to know?” he queried, gazing 
round the barroom. 

“Why, it’s in all the papers,” declared the 
bartender conciliatingly. “The Box-S horses 
was run off a couple of weeks ago.” 

Panhandle turned his back on the group and 
called for a drink. 

Shorty was tugging gently at his sleeve. 
“Posmo’s beat it. Pan.” 

“To hell with him! Beat it yourself if you 
feel like it.” 

“I’ll stick Pan,” declared Shorty, yet his 
furtive eyes belied his assertion. 

For three days Bartley had tried to find 


THE HOLE-IN-THE-WALL 


249 


where Cheyenne was staying, but without suc¬ 
cess, chiefly because Cheyenne kept close to his 
room during the daytime, watching the entrance 
to the Hole-in-the-Wall, waiting for Panhandle 
to step out into the daylight, when there would 
be folk on the street who could witness that 
Panhandle had drawn his gun first. Cheyenne 
determined to give his enemy that chance, and 
then kill him. But thus far Panhandle had not 
appeared on the street in the daytime, so far as 
Cheyenne knew. 

Incidentally, Senator Steve had warned Bart¬ 
ley to keep away from the Hole-in-the-Wall 
district after dark, intimating that there was 
more in the wdnd than Cheyenne’s feud with 
Panhandle Sears. So Bartley contented himself 
with acting as a sort of private secretary for the 
Senator, a duty that was a pleasure. The 
hardest thing Bartley did was to refuse bottled 
entertainment, at least once out of every three 
times it was offered. 

On the evening of the fourth day after Pelly 
had wired the Senator that Sneed and his men 
had ridden north from Tucson, Posmo, hanging 
about the eastern outskirts of Phoenix, saw a 
small band of horsemen against the southern 
sky-line. Knowing the trail they would take. 


250 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


north, Posmo had timed their arrival al¬ 
most to the hour. They would pass to the east 
of Phoenix, and take the old Apache Trail, 
North. Posmo had his horse saddled and hidden 
in a draw. He mounted and rode directly 
toward the oncoming horsemen. 

He sang as he rode. It was safer to do that, 
when it was growing dark. The riders would 
know he was a Mexican, and that he did not 
wish to conceal his identity on the road. He 
did not care to be mistaken for an enemy, 
especially so near Phoenix. 

Sneed, a giant in the dusk, reined in as Posmo 
hailed the group. Sneed asked his name. 
Posmo replied, and was told to ride up. Sneed, 
separating himself from his men, rode a little 
ahead and met Posmo. 

‘‘Panhandle is give the deal away,” stated 
Posmo. 

“How?” 

“He drunk and spend all the money. He 
do not give me anything for that I make the 
deal—over there,” and Posmo gestured toward 
the south. 

“Double-crossed you, eh? And now you’re 
sore and want his scalp.” 

“He talk too much of the Box-S horses in 


THE HOLE-IN-THE-WALL 


251 


that cantina/’ stated Posmo deliberately. “He 
say that you owe him money.” This was an 
afterthought, and an invention. 

“Who did he say that to?” queried Sneed. 

“He tell everybody in that place that you 
turn the good trick and then throw him 
hard.” 

“Either you’re lyin’, or Panhandle’s crazy.” 
Sneed turned and called to his men, a few 
paces off. They rode up on tired horses. “What 
do you say, boys? Panhandle is talkin’, over 
there in Phoenix. Posmo, here, says Panhandle 
is talkin’ about us. Now nobody’s got a thing 
on us. We been south lookin’ at some stock 
we’re thinkin’ of buyin’. Want to ride over with 
me and have a little talk with Panhandle?” 

“Ain’t that kind of risky. Cap?” 

“Every time! But it ain’t necessary to ride 
right into the marshal’s office. We put our 
little deal through clean. The horses we’re 
ridin’ belong to us. And who’s goin’ to stop 
us from ridin’ in, or out, of town? I aim to 
talk to Panhandle into ridin’ north with us. It’s 
safer to have him along. If you all don’t want 
to ride with me. I’ll go in alone.” 

“We’re with you. Cap,” said one of the men. 

“Mebby it’s safer to ride through the towns 


'252 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


from now on than to keep dodgin’ ’em,” sug¬ 
gested Lawson. 

“Come on, then,” and Sneed indicated Posmo. 

“And don’t make any mistakes,” threatened 
Lawson, riding close to the Mexican. “If you 
do^—^you won’t last.” 

Posmo had not counted on this turn of affairs. 
He had supposed that his news would send 
Sneed and his men in to have it out with Pan- 
Randle, or that one of them would ride in and 
persuade Panhandle to join them. But he now 
knew that he would have to ride with Sneed, 
or he would be suspected of double-dealing. 

At the fork of the road leading into Phoenix, 
Sneed reined in. “We’re ridin’ tired horses, 
boys. And we ain’t lookin’ for trouble. All we 
want is Panhandle. We’ll get him.” 

Sitting his big horse like a statue, his club 
foot concealed by the long tapadero, his physical 
being dominating his followers, Sneed headed 
the group that rode slowly down the long open 
stretch bordering on the east of the town. They 
entered town quietly and stopped a few doors 
below the lighted front of the Hole-in-the- 
Wall. 

“Just step in and tell Panhandle I want to see 
him,” and Sneed indicated one of his riders. 


THE HOLE-IN-THE-WALL 


253 


The man went in and came out again with 
the information that Panhandle had left the 
saloon about an hour ago; that he had told 
the bartender he was going out to get some 
money and come back and play the wheel. 

‘‘Get on your horse,’* said Sneed, who had 
been gazing up the street while listening to the 
other. “Here comes Panhandle now. I’ll do 
the talking.” 


CHAPTER XXIV 

CHEYENNE PLAYS BIG 

Watching from his darkened window, Cheyenne 
had seen Panhandle leave the Hole-in-the-Wail, 
and stride up the street alone. It was the first 
time Cheyenne had seen Sears since he had taken 
the single room opposite the gambling-house. 
Cheyenne stepped back, drew down the curtain, 
and turned on the light. The bare board fioor 
was littered with cigarette stubs. A pair of 
saddle-bags hung on the iron bedstead. Other 
furniture was a chair, a scratched and battered 
washstand, a cracked mirror. Standing by the 
washstand Cheyenne took his gun from its 
holster, half-cocked it, and punched out the 
loaded cartridges. He pulled the pin, pushed the 
cylinder out with his thumb, and examined it 
against the light. Carefully he cleaned and 
replaced the cylinder, reloaded it, held the ham¬ 
mer back, and spun the cylinder with his hand. 
Finally he thrust the gun in the holster and, 
striding to the bed, sat down, his chin in his 
hands. 


CHEYENNE PLAYS BIG 


255 


Somewhere out there on the street, or in the 
Hole-in-the-Wall, he would meet his enemy^—in 
a few minutes, perhaps. There would be no 
wordy argument. They understood each other, 
and had understood each other, since that morn¬ 
ing, long ago when they had passed each other 
on the road—‘Panhandle riding in to Laramie 
and Cheyenne and Little Jim riding from the 
abandoned home. Cheyenne thought of Little 
Jim, of his wife, and, by some queer trick of 
mind, of Bartley. He knew that the Easterner 
was in town. The stableman at the Top-Notch 
had told him. Well, he had seen Panhandle. 
Now he would go out and meet him, or overtake 
him. 

Some one turned from the street into the hall 
below and rapidly climbed the stairs. Cheyenne 
heard a knock at the door opposite his. That 
room was unoccupied. Then came a brisk knock 
at his own door. 

“What do you want.^” 

“Is that you, Cheyenne?” 

“Who wants to know?” 

“Bartley. I just found out from Colonel 
Stevenson where you were camping.” 

Cheyenne stepped to the door and unlocked 
it. 


256 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


Bartley entered, glanced round the room, and 
then shook hands with Cheyenne. “Been a 
week trying to find you. How are you and how 
are the horses? Man, but it was a long, lone¬ 
some ride from San Andreas! If it hadn’t been 
for that dog that adopted me^—^by the way. 
Colonel Stevenson was telling Senator Brown 
that Panhandle is in town. I suppose you know 
it.” 

“I seen him, this evenin’.” 

“So did I. Just passed him as I came down 
here. The Colonel said you were camping 
somewhere opposite the Hole-in-the-Wall. How 
is everything?” 

“Quiet.” 

“Were you going anywhere?” 

“No place in particular.” 

Bartley sat down on the edge of the bed and 
lighted a cigarette. Cheyenne stood as though 
waiting for him to leave. There was something 
queer about Cheyenne. His eyes were somber, 
his manner stiff and unnatural. His greeting 
had been cool. 

“About that man Panhandle^—•” Bartley be¬ 
gan, but Cheyenne interrupted with a gesture. 

“You say you saw him, on your way down 
here?” 


CHEYENNE PLAYS BIG 


257 


‘‘Yes. He didn’t seem to recognize me. He 
was walking fast.” 

“How was Little Jim when you left.^” 

“Just fine!” 

“And the folks?” 

“Same as ever. Miss Graj^—■” 

“Well, I reckon I’ll be steppin’ along. Glad I 
saw you again.” 

“Going to leave town to-night?” 

“I aim to.” 

Bartley could no longer ignore Cheyenne’s 
attitude. He knew that something had hap¬ 
pened or was about to happen. Cheyenne’s 
manner did not invite question or suggestion. 
Yet Bartley had promised Dorothy that he 
would exert what influence he had—^and it 
seemed a critical time, just at that moment. 

“I’d like to talk with you a minute, if you 
have time,” said Bartley. 

“Won’t do no good, pardner.” And with¬ 
out waiting for Bartley to say anything more, 
Cheyenne stepped up to him and held out his 
hand. “So long,” he said. 

“Well, good luck!” replied Bartley, and 
shook hands with him heartily. “I hope you 
win.” 

Cheyenne gestured toward the door. Bartley 


258 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


stepped out into the hallway. The light in the 
room flickered out. 

‘T reckon youfll be goin’ back to your hotel,” 
said Cheyenne. “Wait. I’ll just step down 
first.” 

At the foot of the stairs Cheyenne paused 
and glanced up and down the street. Directly 
across the way the Hole-in-the-Wall was ablaze 
with light. A few doors east of the gambling- 
hall an indistinct group of riders sat their horses 
as though waiting for some one. Cheyenne 
drew back into the shadows of the hallway. 

Bartley peered out over Cheyenne’s shoulder. 
From up the street in the opposite direction 
came the distant click of boot-heels. A figure 
strode swiftly toward the patch of white light 
in front of the gambling-hall. 

“Just stand back a little, pardner,” said 
Cheyenne. 

Bartley felt his heart begin to thump as 
Cheyenne gently loosened his gun in the holster. 

“It’s Panhandle!” whispered Bartley, as the 
figure of Sears was silhouetted against the 
lighted windows of the place opposite. 

Out of the shadows where the riders waited 
came a single, abrupt word, peremptory, in¬ 
cisive: “Panhandle!” 


CHEYENNE PLAYS BIG 


259 


Panhandle, about to turn into the lighted 
doorway, stopped short. 

Sneed had called to Panhandle; but it was 
Posmo the Mexican who rode forward to meet 
him. Sneed, close behind Posmo, watched to 
see that the Mexican carried out his instructions, 
which were simply to tell Panhandle to get his 
horse and leave town with them. Seeing the 
group behind the Mexican, Panhandle’s first 
thought was that Posmo had betrayed him to 
the authorities. It was Posmo. Panhandle 
recognized the Mexican’s pinto horse. 

Enraged by what he thought was a trap, and 
with drunken contempt for the man he had 
cheated. Panhandle jerked out his gun and 
fired at the Mexican; fired again at the bulky 
figure behind Posmo, and staggered back as a 
slug shattered his shoulder. Cursing, he swung 
round and emptied his gun into the blur of 
riders that separated and spread across the 
street, returning his fire from the vantage of 
the shadows. Flinging his empty gun at the 
nearest rider. Panhandle lurched toward the 
doorway where Cheyenne and Bartley stood 
watching. He had almost made the curb when 
he lunged and fell. He rose and tried to crawl 
to the shelter of the doorway. One of Sneed’s 


260 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


men spurred forward and shot Panhandle in the 
back. He sank down, his body twitching. 

Bartley gasped as he saw the rider deliberately 
throw another shot into the dying man. Then 
Cheyenne’s arm jerked up. The rider swerved 
and pitched from the saddle. Another of Sneed’s 
men crossed the patch of light, and a splinter 
ripped from the door-casing where Cheyenne 
stood. Cheyenne’s gun came down again and 
the rider pitched forward and fell. His horse 
galloped down the street. Again Cheyenne 
fired, and again. Then, in the sudden stillness 
that followed, Cheyenne stepped out and 
dragged Panhandle into the hallway. Some 
one shouted. A window above the saloon op¬ 
posite was raised. Doors opened and men came 
out, questioning each other, gathering in a group 
in front of the Hole-in-the-Wall. 

Stunned by the sudden shock of events, 
the snakelike flash of guns in the semi-darkness, 
and the realization that several men had been 
gravely wounded, perhaps killed, Bartley heard 
Cheyenne’s voice as though from a distance. 

Cheyenne’s hand was on Bartley’s arm. 
‘‘Come on. The game is closed for the night.” 

As they stepped from the doorway a man 
stopped them and asked what had happened. 


CHEYENNE PLAYS BIG 


g61 


“We’re goin’ for a doctor,” said Cheyenne. 
“Somebody got hurt.” 

Hastening along the shadowy wall of the build¬ 
ing, they turned a corner and by a roundabout 
way reached the city marshal’s office. 

The marshal, who had been summoned in 
haste, was at his desk. “Sneed and his bunch 
got Panhandle,” stated Cheyenne quietly. “Mr. 
Bartley, here, saw the row. Four of Sneed’s 
men are down. One got away.” 

“Sure it was Sneed?” 

“I reckon your men will fetch him in, right 
soon. Panhandle got Sneed and a Mexican, 
before they stopped him.” 

Colonel Stevenson glanced at Cheyenne’s 
belt and holster. Cheyenne drew his gun and 
handed it to the marshal. “She’s fresh loaded,” 
he said. 

“Cheyenne emptied his gun trying to fight 
off the men who killed Panhandle,” said Bart¬ 
ley, stepping forward. 

“And you’re sure they were Sneed’s men?” 
queried the marshal. 

Cheyenne nodded. 

“I am obliged to you,” said the marshal. 
“But I’ll have to detain you both until after 
the inquest.” 


CHAPTER XXV 


TWO TRAILS HOME 

Bartley was the chief witness at the inquest. 
He told his story in a manner that impressed 
the coroner’s jury. Senator Brown was present, 
and identified one of the dead outlaws as Sneed. 
Posmo, killed by Panhandle’s first shot, was 
known in Phoenix. Panhandle, riddled with 
bullets, was also identified by the Senator, 
Cheyenne, and several habitues of the gambling- 
hall. Bartley himself identified the body of one 
man as that of Hull. 

Cheyenne was the last witness called. He 
admitted that he had had trouble with Pan¬ 
handle Sears, and that he was looking for him 
when the fight started; that Sneed and his men 
had unexpectedly taken the quarrel out of his 
hands, and that he had fired exactly five shots 
at the men who had killed Panhandle and it 
had been close work, and easy. Panhandle 
had put up a game fight. The odds had been 
heavily against him. He had been stand¬ 
ing in the light of the gambling-hall doorway 


TWO TRAILS HOME 


263 


while the men who had killed him had been in 
the shadow. ‘‘He didn’t have a chance,” con¬ 
cluded Cheyenne. 

“You say you were looking for this man Sears, 
and yet you took his part against Sneed’s outfit.^” 
queried the coroner. 

“I didn’t just say so. Mr. Bartley said 
that.” 

“Mr. Bartley seems to be the only disinter¬ 
ested witness of the shooting,” observed the 
coroner. 

“If there is any further evidence needed to 
convince the jury that Mr. Bartley’s statements 
are impartial and correct, you might read this,” 
declared the city marshal. “It is the ante¬ 
mortem statement of one of Sneed’s men, taken 
at the hospital at three-fifteen this morning. 
He died at four o’clock.” 

The coroner read the statement aloud. Ten 
minutes later the verdict was given. The de¬ 
ceased, named severally, had met death by 
gunshot wounds, at the hands of parties unknown. 

It was a caustic verdict, intended for the 
benefit of the cattle- and horse-thieves of the 
Southwest. It conveyed the hint that the city 
of Phoenix was prompt to resent the presence 
of such gentry within its boundaries. One of 


264 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


the daily papers commented upon the fact that 
“the parties unknown” must have been fast 
and efficient gunmen. Cheyenne’s name was 
not mentioned, and that was due to the influence 
of the marshal, Senator Brown, and the mayor, 
which left readers of the papers to infer that the 
police of Phoenix had handled the matter them¬ 
selves. 

Through the evidence of the outlaw who 
had survived long enough to make a statement, 
the Box-S horses were traced to a ranch in 
the neighborhood of Tucson, identified, and 
finally returned to their owner. 

The day following the inquest, Bartley and 
Cheyenne left Phoenix, with Fort Apache as 
their first tentative destination, and with the 
promise of much rugged and wonderful country 
in between as an incentive to journey again with 
his companion, although Bartley needed no 
special incentive. At close range Bartley had 
beheld the killing of several men. And he could 
not free himself from the vision of Panhandle 
crawling toward him in the patch of white light, 
the flitting of horsemen back and forth, and the 
red flash of six-guns. Bartley was only too 
anxious to leave the place. 

It was not until they were two days out of 


TWO TRAILS HOME 


265 


Phoenix that Cheyenne mentioned the fight—• 
and then he did so casually, as though seeking 
an opinion from his comrade. 

Bartley merely said he was glad Cheyenne 
had not killed Panhandle. Cheyenne pondered 
a while, riding loosely, and gazing down at the 
trail. 

‘T reckon I would ’a’ killed him—‘if I’d ’a’ 
got the chance,” he said. ‘T meant to. No, it 
wasn’t me or Panhandle that settled that argu¬ 
ment: it was somethin’ bigger than us. Folks 
that reads about the fight, knowin’ I was in 
Phoenix, will most like say that I got him. Let 
’em say so. I know I didn’t; and you know I 
didn’t^—-and that’s good enough for me.” 

‘‘And Dorothy and Aunt Jane and Little Jim,” 
said Bartley. 

“Meanin’ Little Jim won’t have to grow up 
knowin’ that his father was a killer.” 

‘T was thinking of that.” 

“Well, right here is where I quit thinkin’ 
about it and talkin’ about it. If that dog of 
yours there was to kill a coyote, in a fair fight, 
I reckon he wouldn’t think about it long.” 

A few minutes later Cheyenne spoke of the 
country they were in. 

“She’s rough and unfriendly, right here,” 


266 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


he said. ‘‘But north a ways she sure makes 
up for it. There’s big spruce and high mesas 
and grass to your pony’s knees and water ’most 
anywhere you look for it. I ain’t much on 
huntin’. But there’s plenty deer and wild 
turkey up that way, and some bear. And with 
a bent pin and a piece of string a fella can catch 
all the trout he wants. Arizona is a mighty sur¬ 
prisin’ State, in spots. Most folks from the 
East think she’s sagebrush and sand, except 
the Grand Canon; but that’s kind of rented out 
to tourists, most of the time. I like the Painted 
Desert better.” 

“Where haven’t you been.^^” said Bartley, 
laughing. 

“Well, I ain’t been North for quite a spell.” 

And Cheyenne fell silent, thinking of Laramie, 
of the broad prairies of Wyoming, of his old 
homestead, and the days when he was happy 
with his wife and Little Jim. But he was not 
silent long. He visioned a plan that he might 
work out, after he had seen Aunt Jane and 
Uncle Frank again. Meanwhile, the sun was 
shining, the road wound among the ragged hills, 
and Filaree and Joshua stepped along briskly, 
their hoof-beats suggesting the rhythm of a 
song. 


TWO TRAILS HOME 


267 


That night they camped in the hill country 
not far from a crossroads store. In the morning 
they bought a few provisions and an extra 
canteen. 

“There’s a piece of country between here and 
the real hills that is like to be dry,” explained 
Cheyenne. “W e’re leavin’ the road, this morn^ 
in’, and cuttin’ north. She’s some rough, the 
way we’re headed, but you’ll like it.” 

From the sagebrush of the southern slopes 
they climbed slowly up to a country of scattered 
juniper. By noon they were among the pinons,^ 
following a dim bridle trail that Cheyenne’s 
horses seemed to know. 

“In a couple of days, I aim to spring a sur¬ 
prise on you,” said Cheyenne as they turned 
in that night. “I figure to show you somethin’ 
you been wantin’ to see.” 

“Bring on your bears,” said Bartley, laughing. 

Cheyenne’s moodiness had vanished. Fre- 
quej tly he hummed his old trail song as they 
rode. Next day, as they nooned among the 
spruce of the high country, Cheyenne suddenly 
dre . the dice from his pocket and, turning 
them in his hands, finally tossed them over the 
rim-rock of the canon edging their camp. “It’s 
a fool game,” he said. And Bartley knew, by 


268 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


the other’s tone, that he did not alone refer to 
the game of dice. 

The air was thin, clear, and vital with a 
quality that the air of the lower country lacked. 
Bartley felt an ambition to settle down and 
go to writing. He thought that he now had 
material enough and to spare. They were in 
a country, vast, fenceless, verdant—^almost awe¬ 
some in its timbered silences. His imagination 
was stirred. 

From their noon camp they rode into the 
timber and from the timber into a^ mountain 
meadow, knee-deep with lush grass. There 
was no visible trail across the meadow but the 
horses seemed to know which way to go. After 
crossing the meadow, Filaree, leading the caval¬ 
cade, turned and took a steep trail down the 
side of a hidden canon, a mighty chasm, rock- 
walled and somber. At the bottom the horses 
drank, and, crossing the stream, climbed the 
farther side. In an hour they were again on 
the rim, plodding noiselessly through the sun- 
flecked shadows of the giant spruce. 

“How about that surprise?” queried Bartley. 

“Ain’t this good enough?” said Cheyenne, 
gesturing roundabout. 

“Gosh, yes! Lead on, Macduff.” 


TWO TRAILS HOME 


269 


About four that afternoon the horses pricked 
their ears and quickened their pace. Filaree and 
Joshua especially seemed interested in getting 
along the silent trail; and presently the trail 
merged with another trail, more defined. A 
few hundred yards down this trail, and Bartley 
saw a big log cabin; to the left and beyond it a 
corral, empty, and with the bars down. Bartley 
had never seen the place before, and did not 
realize where he was, yet he had noticed that the 
horses seemed to know the place. 

“We won’t stop by,” said Cheyenne. 

“Any one live there?” 

“Sneed used to,” stated Cheyenne. 

Then Bartley knew that they were not far 
from the San Andreas Valley and—^well, the 
Lawrence ranch. 

They dropped down a long trail into another 
canon which finally spread to a green valley 
dotted with ranches. The horses stepped 
briskly. Presently, rounding a bend, they saw 
a ranch-house, far below, and sharply defined 
squares of alfalfa. 

“That house with the red roof—” said Bart¬ 
ley. 

“That’s her,” asserted Cheyenne, a trifle 
ambiguously. 


^70 


PAKTNERS OF CHANCE 


‘'Then we’ve swung round in a circle.*’ 

“We done crossed the res’avation, pardner. 
And we didn’t see a dog-gone Injun.” 

Little Jim was the first to catch sight of 
them as they jogged down the last stretch 
of trail leaving the foothills. He recognized 
the horses long before their riders were near 
enough to be identified as his father and Bartley. 

Little Jim did not rush to Aunt Jane and tell 
her excitedly that they were coming. Instead, 
he quietly saddled up his pony and rode out to 
meet them. Part-way up the slope he waited. 

His greeting was not effusive. “I just thought 
I’d ride up and tell you folks that—that I seen 
you cornin’.” 

“How goes the hunting?” queried Bartley. 

“Fine! I got six rabbits yesterday. Dorry 
is gittin’ so she can shoot pretty good, too. 
How you makin’ it, dad?” 

Cheyenne pushed back his hat and gazed 
at his young son. “Pretty fair, for an old man,” 
said Cheyenne presently. “You been behavin’ 
yourself?” 

“Sure.” 

“How would you like to ride a real hoss, 
once?” 

“You mean your hoss?” 


TWO TRAILS HOME 


271 


‘‘Uh-huh.” 

‘T’ll trade you, eren/’ 

*‘No, you won’t, son. But you can ride him 
down to the ranch, if you like.” 

Little Jim almost tumbled from his pony in 
his eagerness to ride Joshua, his father’s horse, 
with the big saddle and rope and the carbine 
under the stirrup leather. 

“You musta made a long ride,” declared 
Jimmy, as he scrambled up on Joshua. “Josh’s 
shoes is worn thin. He’ll be thro win’ one, next.” 

Jimmy called attention to the horse’s shoes, 
that his father and Bartley might not see how 
really pleased he was to ride a “real horse.” 

“Yes, a long ride. How is Aunt Jane and 
Dorry?” 

“Oh, they’re all right. Uncle Frank he cut 
twenty-two tons of alfalfa off the lower field 
last week.” 

Cheyenne sat sideways on Jimmy’s pony as 
they rode down the last easy slope and turned 
into the ranch gate. Aunt Jane, who was busy 
cooking,—^it seemed that Aunt Jane was always 
busy cooking something or other, when she 
wasn’t dressmaking or mending clothing or 
ironing,'—^greeted them warmly. Frank was 
working down at the lower end. Dorry had 


^72 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


gone to San Andreas. She would be back ’most 
any time, now. And weren’t they hungry? 

They were. And there was fresh milk and 
pie. But they put up the horses first. 

Later, Cheyenne and Little Jim decided to 
walk down to the lower end of the ranch and see 
Uncle Frank. Cheyenne had washed his hands 
and face before eating, as had Bartley. But 
Bartley did not let it go at that. He begged 
some hot water and again washed and shaved, 
brushed his clothes, and changed his flannel 
shirt for a clean one. Then he strolled to the 
kitchen and chatted with Aunt Jane, who had 
read of the killing of the outlaws in Phoenix, and 
had many questions to ask. It had been a 
terrible tragedy. And Mr. Bartley had actually 
seen the shooting? 

Aunt Jane was glad that Cheyenne had not 
been mixed up in it, especially as that man 
Sears had been killed. But now that he had 
been killed, people would talk less about her 
brother. It really had seemed an act of Provi¬ 
dence that Cheyenne had had nothing to do 
with the shooting. Of course, Mr. Bartley 
knew about the trouble that her brother had 
had—-and why he had never settled down—* 

‘‘His name was not mentioned in the papers,” 


TWO TRAILS HOME 


275 


said Bartley, thinking that he must say some- 
thing. 

“There’s Dorry, now,” said Aunt Jane, glanc¬ 
ing through the kitchen window. 

Bartley promptly excused himself and stepped 
out to the gate, which he vaulted and opened as 
Dorothy waved a greeting. Bartley carried the 
groceries in, and later helped unhitch the team. 
They chatted casually neither referring to the 
subject uppermost in their minds. 

When Cheyenne returned, riding on a load of 
alfalfa with Uncle Frank and Little Jim, Bartley 
managed to let Uncle Frank know that he was 
not supposed to have had a hand in the Phoenix 
affair. Cheyenne thanked him. 

“But you ain’t talked with Dorry, yet, have 
you?” queried Cheyenne. 

Bartley shook his head. 

“She’ll find out,” stated Cheyenne. “You 
can’t fool Dorry.” 

That evening, while Uncle Frank and Chey¬ 
enne were discussing a matter which seemed 
confidential to themselves, and while Aunt Jane 
was quietly keeping an eye on Jimmy, who could 
hardly keep from interrupting his seniors— 
Bartley and Dorry didn’t count, just then, for 


^74 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


they were also talking together—-Dorothy inti¬ 
mated to Bartley that she would like to talk 
with him alone. She did not say so, nor make 
any gesture to indicate her wish, yet Bartley 
interpreted her expression correctly. 

He suggested that they step out to the ver¬ 
anda, where it was cooler. From the veranda 
they strolled to the big gate, and there she asked 
him, point-blank, to tell her just what had hap¬ 
pened in Phoenix. She had read the papers, 
and she surmised that there was more to the 
affair than the papers printed. For instance. 
Senator Brown, upon his return to the Box-S, 
had kindly sent word to Aunt Jane that Chey¬ 
enne was all right. Bartley thought that the 
thoughtful Senator had rather spilled the beans. 

“Did Cheyenne^—and Dorothy hesitated. 

“Cheyenne didn’t kill Sears,” stated Bartley. 

“You talked with Cheyenne, and got him to 
keep out of it.^” 

“I tried to. He wouldn’t listen. Then I 
wished him good luck and told him I hoped he’d 
win.” 

Dorothy was puzzled. “How do you know 
he didn’t?” 

“Because I was standing beside him when it 
happened. I don’t see why you shouldn’t know 


TWO TRAILS HOME 


275 


about it. Cheyenne and I were just about to 
cross the street, that night, when we saw Pan¬ 
handle coming down the opposite side. Sneed 
and his men, who were evidently waiting for 
him, called to Panhandle. Panhandle must 
have thought it was the sheriff, or the city 
marshal. It happened suddenly. Panhandle 
began firing at Sneed and his riders. They shot 
him down just as he reached the curb in front of 
us. They kept on shooting at him as he lay in 
the street. Cheyenne couldn’t stand that. He 
emptied his gun, trying to keep them off^—^and 
he emptied some saddles.” 

‘‘Thank you for trying to—^to give Cheyenne 
my message,” said Dorothy. And she shook 
hands with him. 

“Do you know this is the loveliest vista I 
have seen since leaving Phoenix^—-this San An¬ 
dreas Valley,” said Bartley. 

“But you came through the Apache Forest,” 
said Dorothy, not for the sake of argument, but 
because Bartley was still holding her hand. 

“Yes. But you don’t happen to live in the 
Apache Forest.” 

“But, Mr. Bartley— 

“John, please.” 

“Cheyenne calls you Jack.” 


276 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


‘‘Better still. Do you think Aunt Jane would 
mind if we walked up the road as far as^—-well, 
as far as the spring?” 

“Hadn’t you better ask her?” 

“No. But she wouldn’t object. Would you?” 

Slowly Dorothy withdrew her hand and Bart¬ 
ley opened the big gate. As they walked down 
the dim, starlit road they were startled by the 
advent of a yellow dog that bounded from the 
brush and whined joyously. 

“And I had forgotten him,” said Bartley. 
“Oh, he’s mine! I can’t get away from the fact. 
He adopted me, and has followed me clear 
through. I had forgotten that he is afraid to 
come into a ranch. And I am ashamed to say 
that I forgot to feed him, to-night. He isn’t at 
all beautiful, but he’s tremendously loyal.” 

“And he shall have a good supper when we 
get back,” declared Dorothy. 

The yellow dog padded along behind them in 
the dusk, content to be with his master again. 
Bartley talked with Dorothy about his plans, 
his hopes, and her promise to become the heroine 
of his new story. Then he surprised her by 
stating that he had decided to make a home in 
the San Andreas Valley. 

“You really don’t know anything about me. 


TWO TRAILS HOME 


277 


or my people,” he said. “And I want you to 
know. My only living relative is my sister, 
and she is scandalously well-to-do. Her hus¬ 
band makes money manufacturing hooks and 
eyes. He’s not romantic, but he’s solid. As 
for me— 

And Bartley spoke of his own income, just 
what he could afford to spend each month, and 
just how much he managed to save, and his 
ambition to earn more. Dorothy realized that 
he was talking to her just as he would have 
talked to a chum^—a man friend, without re¬ 
serve, and she liked him for it. She had been 
curious about him, his vocation, and even about 
his plans; and she felt a glow of affection because 
he had seemed so loyal to his friendship with 
Cheyenne, and because he had been kind to 
Little Jim Hastings. While doing so with no 
other thought than to please the boy, Bartley 
had made no mistake in buying him that new rifle. 

As they came to the big rock by the roadside 
—‘a spot which Bartley had good reason to 
remember^—he paused and glanced at Dorothy. 
She was laughing. 

“You looked so funny that day. You were 
the most dilapidated-looking person—-for a 
writer—” 


^8 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


'T imagine I was, after Hull got through with 
me. Let’s sit down awhile. I want to tell you 
what I should like to do. Are you comfortable 

Dorothy nodded. 

‘‘Well/’ said Bartley, seating himself beside 
her, “I should like to rent a small place in the 
valley, a place just big enough for two, and then 
settle down and write this story. Then, if I sold 
it, I think I should lock up, get a pack-horse and 
another saddle-horse, outfit for a long trip, and 
then take the trail north and travel for, say, six 
months, seeing the country, camping along the 
way, visiting with folks, and incidentally gath¬ 
ering material for another story. It could be 
done.” 

“But why rent a place, if you plan to leave it 
right away?” 

“Because I should want a home to come to, 
a place to think of when I was on the trails. You 
loiow a fellow can’t wander up and down the 
world forever. I like to travel, but I think a 
chap ought to spend at least half a year under a 
roof. Don’t you?” 

“I was thinking of Cheyenne,” said Dorothy 
musingly. 

“I think of him a great deal,” declared 
Bartley. 


TWO TRAILS HOME 


279 


Dorothy glanced up at him from her pon¬ 
dering. 

Bartley leaned toward her. “Dorothy, will 
you help me make that home, here in the valley, 
and be my comrade on the trails.?^’’ 

“Hadn’t you better ask Aunt Jane?” said 
Dorothy softly, yet with a touch of humor. 

“Do you mean it?” Bartley’s voice was boy¬ 
ishly enthusiastic, like the voice of a chum, a 
hearty comrade. “But how about your own 
folks?” 

Dorothy’s answer was not given then and 
there, in words. Nor yet by gesture, nor in any 
visible way—^there being no moon that early in 
the evening. After a brief interval^—'Or, at 
least, it seemed brief^—-they rose and strolled 
back down the road, the yellow dog padding 
faithfully at their heels. Presently—- 

“Hey, Dorry!” came in a shrill voice. 

“It’s the scout!” exclaimed Bartley, laughing. 

“We’re coming, Jimmy,” called Dorothy. 

*‘But before we’re taken into custody—•” said 
Bartley; and as mentioned before, the moon had 
not appeared. 

Little Jim, astride of the ranch gate, queru¬ 
lously demanded where they had been and why 
they had not told him they were going somewhere. 


PARTNERS OF CHANCE 


ftSO 


“And you left the gate open, and—every¬ 
thing!’’ concluded Jimmy. 

“We just went for a walk,” said Dorothy. 

“What’s the use of walkin’ up the old road in 
the dark?” queried Jimmy. “You can’t see 
anything.” 

“What do you say to a rabbit hunt to-morrow 
morning early?” asked Bartley. 

“Nope!” declared Little Jim decisively. 
“ ’Cause my dad was talkin’ with Aunt Jane 
and Uncle Frank, and dad says me and him are 
goin’ back to Laramie where ma is. And we’re 
goin’ on the train. Aunt Jane she cried. But 
shucks! We ain’t goin’ to stay in Laramie all 
the time. Dad says if things rib up right, me 
and ma and him are cornin’ back to live in the 
valley. Don’t you wish you was goin’, 
Dorry?” 

“You run along and tell Aunt Jane we’re 
coming,” said Bartley. 

Little Jim hesitated. But then, Mr. Bartley 
had bought him that new rifle. Jimmy pattered 
down the path to the lighted doorway, delivered 
his message, and pattered back again toward the 
gate, wasting no time en route. Halfway to the 
gate he stopped. Mr. Bartley was standing 
very close to Dorry—in fact, Jimmy was 


TWO TRAILS HOME 


*81 


amazed to see him kiss her. Jimmy turned and 
trotted back to the house. 

‘‘Shucks!’’ he exclaimed. “I thought he liked 
guns and things more’n girls!” 

But Jimmy was too loyal to tell what he had 
seen. After all, Dorry was mighty fine, for a 
girl. She could ride and shoot, and she never 
told on him when he had done wrong. 

With a skip and a hop Jimmy burst into the 
room. “We’re goin’ on the train^^ he declared. 
“Ain’t we, dad?” 

Dorothy and Bartley came in. Bartley 
glanced at Cheyenne, hesitated, and then thrust 
out his hand. 

“Good luck to your new venture,” he said 
heartily. 

“Same to you, pardner!” And Cheyenne in¬ 
cluded Dorry in his glance. 

“I want to ask Aunt Jane’s advice,” stated 
Bartley. 

“Then,” said Cheyenne, “I reckon me and 
Frank and Jimmy’ll step out and take a look at 
the stars. She’s a wonderful night.” 


THE END 


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